m  MEMOmAJA 
GEORGE  HOLMES  HOWISON 


iSitocr^itie  aBbition 


THE  POETIC  AND  DRAMATIC  WORKS 
OF  ROBERT  BROWNING 

IN  SIX  VOLUMES 

VOLUME  I. 


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PAULINE:  PARACELSUS 

STRAFFORD:  SORDELLO:  PIPPA  PASSES 

KING  VICTOR  AND  KING 

CHARLES 


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BY 


ROBERT   BROWNING 


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BOSTON   AND   NEW   YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 

(CKie  ni\3rrgiDe  Pres^,  <!raniliriD0e 

1887 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cnmbrid^e  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  II.  0.  Houghton  «&  Co. 


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^ 


PUBLISHERS'   ADVERTISEMENT  .^ 


Ix  issuing  a  new  American  edition  of  Mr.  Browning's  works 
the  Publishers  purpose  not  only  to  place  before  the  reader  in 
convenient  form  the  entire  body  of  the  poet's  writings,  but  to 
follow  with  scrupulous  care  his  latest  revision  of  the  text.  It 
is  well  known  that  Mr.  Browning  has  taken  occasion,  in  each 
successive  issue  of  his  works,  both  to  redistribute  collections  of 
poems  and  to  alter,  often  materially,  the  form  of  many  verses. 
Before  the  pubUcation  of  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  Mr.  Brown- 
ing gathered  all  of  his  previous  poems  and  dramas  and  issued 
them,  rearranged  and  revised,  in  a  series  of  six  volumes.  The 
present  edition  follows  that  series,  and  continues  with  the  other 
writings  in  the  order  of  their  first  appearance.  Dates  or  the 
author's  memoranda  sufficiently  indicate  the  original  publication. 
When  issuing  the  collective  edition  referred  to  above,  Mr. 
Browning  prefixed  the  following  note  :  — 

The  poems  that  follow  are  printed  in  the  order  of  their  publication. 
The  first  piece  in  the  series  (Pauline),  I  acknowledge  and  retain  with 
extreme  repugnance,  indeed  purely  of  necessity  ;  for  not  long  ago  I 
inspected  one,  and  am  certified  of  the  existence  of  other  transcripts, 
intended  sooner  or  later  to  be  published  abroad  :  by  forestalUng 
these,  I  can  at  least  correct  some  misprints  (no  syllable  is  changed) 
and  introduce  a  boyish  work  by  an  exculpatory  word.  The  thing 
was  my  earliest  attempt  at  "  poetry  always  dramatic  in  principle, 
and  so  many  utterances  of  so  many  imaginary  persons,  not  mine," 
which  I  have  since  written  according  to  a  scheme  less  extrava- 
gant and  scale  less  impracticable  than  were  ventured  upon  in  this 
crude  preliminary  sketch  —  a  sketch  that,  "^n  reviewal,  appears  not 
altoirether  wide  of  some  hint  of  the  characteristic  features  of  that 


861078 


VI  PUBLISHERS'   ADVERTISEMENT 

particular  dramatis  persona  it  would  fain  have  reproduced  :  good 
draughtsmanship,  however,  and  right  handling  were  far  beyond  the 
artist  at  that  time. 

R.  B. 
London,  December  25,  1867. 

In  the  final  volume  of  this  series  will  be  found  Indexes  of 
contents  and  of  first  lines.  The  portrait  prefacing  the  present 
volume  is  from  a  steel-plate  executed  by  J.  A.  J.  Wilcox  in 
1887  from  a  recent  photograph. 


CONTENTS 


^  PAGB 

Pacltne  :  A  Fkag3«ent  of  a  Confession 1 

Pakacei^ds  : 

I.    PabACELSUS  ASPIEIES 27 

II.  Paracelsus  attains 46 

III.  Paracelsus CI 

IV.  Paracelsus  aspires 85 

V.  Paracelsus  attains 101 

Note '.  "^     .        .        .123 

Strafford:  A  Tragedy 129 

Sordello ...  193 

PippA  Passes:  A  Drama 327 

King  Victor  and  King  Charles  :  A  Tragedy    ....  369 


{^Prefixed  to  the  three-volume  edition  issued  in  i8bs-) 


I  DEDICATE  THESE  VOLUMES  TO  MY  OLD  FRIEND  JOHN  FORSTER,  GLAD 
AND  GRATEFUL  THAT  HE  WHO,  FROM  THE  FIRST  PUBLICATION  OF  THE 
VARIOUS  POEMS  THEY  INCLUDE,  HAS  BEEN  THEIR  PROMPTEST  AND 
STAUNCHEST  HELPER,  SHOULD  SEEM  EVEN  NEARER  TO  ME  NOW  THAN 
ALMOST   THIRTY   YEARS   AGO. 

R.  B. 

London,  April  21,  /SOj, 


PAULINE 

A  FRAGMENT  OF  A  CONFESSION 

Plus  ne  suis  ce  que  f  at  ete, 
Et  ne  le  sraurois  jamais  etre. 

Makot. 

NoN  dubito,  quill  titulus  libri  nostri  raritate  sua  quampluriraos  alliciat 
ad  leg-eudum  :  inter  quos  nomiulli  obliquse  opinionis,  meiite  languidi,  multi 
etiam  maligni,  et  in  ingeniura  nostrum  ingrati  accedent,  qui  temeraria  sua 
ig-norantia,  vix  conspecto  titulo  clamabunt :  Nos  vetita  docere,  hferesium 
semina  jacere :  piis  auribus  offendiculo,  prceelaris  ingeniis  scandalo  esse : 
.  .  .  adeo  conseientiae  suae  consulentes,  ut  nee  Apollo,  nee  Musae  omnes, 
neque  Angelus  de  coelo  me  ab  illorum  exeeratione  viiidicare  queaiit : 
quibus  et  ego  nunc  consulo,  ne  scripta  nostra  legant,  nee  intelligant,  nee 
raeminerint :  nam  noxia  sunt,  venenosa  sunt :  Acherontis  ostium  est  in  hoe 
libro,  lapides  loquitur,  caveant,  ne  cerebrum  illis  excutiat.  Vos  autem, 
qui  aequa  mente  ad  legendum  venitis,  si  tantam  prudentise  discretionem 
adhibueritis,  quantam  in  ruelle  legendo  apes,  jam  securi  legite.  Puto 
namque  vos  et  utilitatis  baud  parum  et  voluptatis  plurimum  accepturos. 
Quod  si  qua  repereritis,  quae  vobis  non  placeant,  mittite  ilia,  nee  utimini. 
Nam  et  ego  vobis  illa  non  Probo,  sed  Narro.  Catera  tamen  prop- 
terea  non  respuite  .  .  .  Ideo,  si  quid  liberius  dictum  sit,  ignoscite  adoles- 
centiae  nostrae,  qui  minor  quara  adolescens  hoc  opus  composui.  —  Hen.  Corn. 
Agrippa,  De  Occult.  Philosoph.  in  Prefat. 
London,  January,  1833. 
V.  A.  XX. 

Pauline,  mine  own,  bend  o'er  me  —  thy  soft  breast 
Shall  pant  to  mine  —  bend  o'er  me  —  thy  sweet  eyes, 
And  loosened  hair  and  breathing  lips,  and  arms 
Drawing  me  to  thee  —  these  build  up  a  screen 
To  shut  me  in  with  thee,  aad  from  all  fear  ; 
So  that  I  might  unlock  the  sleepless  brood 
Of  fancies  from  my  soul,  their  lurking-place, 
Nor  doubt  that  each  would  pass,  ne'er  to  return 
To  one  so  watched,  so  loved  and  so  secured. 
But  what  can  guard  thee  but  thy  naked  love  ? 
Ah  dearest,  whoso  sucks  a  poisoned  wound 
Envenoms  his  own  veins  !     Thou  art  so  good. 
So  calm  —  if  thou  shouldst  wear  a  brow  less  light 
For  some  wild  thought  wliicli,  but  for  me,  were  kept 
From  out  thy  soul  as  from  a  sacred  star  ! 
Yet  till  I  have  unlocked  them  it  were  vain 


2 ;   '.PAULINE 

•• '!  /      \'  '  '.•' '  ' 

'To  hope  to  sm'g  ;'  some  woe  would  light  on  me, 
/•  I  'IJfaCijy^  \t;bjii{l  pdin-i  at  ojtie  whose  quivering  lip 
•*  ••  'XVa^  bathed  lit 'heff  e'nchantments,  whose  brow  burned 
Beneath  the  crown  to  which  her  secrets  knelt, 
Who  learned  the  spell  which  can  call  up  the  dead, 
And  then  departed  smiling  like  a  fiend 
Who  has  deceived  God,  —  if  such  one  should  seek 
Asrain  her  altars  and  stand  robed  and  crowned 
Amid  the  faithful :  sad  confession  first, 
Remorse  and  pardon  and  old  claims  renewed, 
Ere  I  can  be  —  as  I  shall  be  no  more. 

I  had  been  spared  this  shame  if  I  had  sat 

By  thee  forever  from  the  first,  in  place 

Of  my  wild  dreams  of  beauty  and  of  good. 

Or  with  them,  as  an  earnest  of  their  truth  : 

No  thought  nor  hope  having  been  shut  from  thee, 

No  vague  wish  unexplained,  no  wandering  aim 

Sent  back  to  bind  on  fancy's  wings  and  seek 

Some  strange  fair  world  where  it  might  be  a  law ; 

But  doubting  nothing,  had  been  led  by  thee, 

Tlu'ough  youth,  and  saved,  as  one  at  length  awaked 

Who  has  slept  through  a  peril.     Ah  vain,  vain  ! 

Thou  lovest  me  ;  the  past  is  in  its  grave 
Though  its  ghost  haunts  us ;  still  this  much  is  ours, 
To  cast  away  restraint,  lest  a  worse  thing 
Wait  for  us  in  the  darkness.     Thou  lovest  me  ; 
And  thou  art  to  receive  not  love  but  faith. 
For  which  thou  wilt  be  mine,  and  smile  and  take 
All  shapes  and  shames,  and  veil  without  a  fear 
That  form  which  music  follows  like  a  slave : 
And  I  look  to  thee  and  I  trust  in  thee. 
As  in  a  Northern  night  one  looks  alway 
Unto  the  East  for  morn  and  spring  and  joy. 
Tliou  seest  then  my  aimless,  hopeless  state. 
And,  resting  on  some  few  old  feelings  won 
Back  by  thy  beauty,  wouldst  that  I  essay 
The  task  wliich  was  to  me  what  now  thou  art : 
And  why  should  I  conceal  one  weakness  more  ? 

Thou  wilt  remember  one  warm  morn  when  winter 
Crei)t  aged  from  the  earth,  and  spring's  first  breath 
Blew  soft  from  the  moist  hills  ;  the  black-thorn  boughs, 
So  dark  in  the  bare  wood,  when  glistening 
In  the  sunshine  were  white  with  coming  buds. 


PAULINE 

Like  the  bright  side  of  a  sorrow,  and  the  banks 

Had  violets  opening  from  sleep  like  eyes. 

I  walked  with  thee  who  knew'st  not  a  deep  shame 

Lurked  beneath  smiles  and  careless  words  which  sought 

To  hide  it  till  they  wandered  and  were  mute, 

As  we  stood  listening  on  a  sunny  mound 

To  the  wind  murmuring  in  the  damp  copse, 

Like  heavy  breathings  of  some  hidden  thing 

Betrayed  by  sleep  ;  until  the  feeling  rushed 

That  I  was  low  indeed,  yet  not  so  low 

As  to  endure  the  calmness  of  thine  eyes  ; 

And  so  I  told  thee  all,  while  the  cool  breast 

I  leaned  on  altered  not  its  quiet  beating. 

And  long  ere  words  like  a  hurt  bird's  complaint 

Bade  me  look  up  and  be  what  I  had  been, 

I  felt  despair  could  never  live  by  thee  : 

Thou  wilt  remember.     Thou  art  not  more  dear 

Than  song  was  once  to  me ;  and  I  ne'er  sung 

But  as  one  entering  bright  halls  where  all 

Will  rise  and  shout  for  him  :   sure  I  must  own 

That  I  am  fallen,  having  chosen  gifts 

Distinct  from  theirs  —  that  I  am  sad  and  fain 

Would  give  up  all  to  be  but  where  I  was, 

Not  high  as  I  had  been  if  faithful  found, 

But  low  and  weak  yet  full  of  hoj)e,  and  sure 

Of  goodness  as  of  life  —  that  I  would  lose 

All  this  gay  mastery  of  mind,  to  sit 

Once  more  with  them,  trusting  in  truth  and  love, 

And  with  an  aim  —  not  being  what  I  am. 

0  Pauline,  I  am  ruined  who  believed 

That  though  my  soul  had  floated  from  its  sphere 
Of  wild  dominion  into  the  dim  orb 
Of  self —  that  it  was  strong  and  free  as  ever  ! 
It  has  conformed  itself  to  that  dim  orb. 
Reflecting  all  its  shades  and  shapes,  and  now 
Must  stay  where  it  alone  can  be  adored. 

1  have  felt  this  in  dreams  —  in  dreams  in  which 
I  seemed  the  fate  from  which  I  fled  ;  I  felt 

A  strange  delight  in  causing  my  decay  ; 

I  was  a  fiend  in  darkness  chained  forever 

Within  some  ocean-cave  ;  and  ages  rolled, 

Till  through  the  cleft  rock,  like  a  moonbeam,  came 

A  white  swan  to  remain  with  me  ;  and  ages 

Rolled,  yet  I  tired  not  of  my  first  joy 

Li  gazing  on  the  peace  of  its  pure  wings  : 

And  then  I  said,  "  It  is  most  fair  to  me, 


PA  ULINE 

Yet  its  soft  wings  must  sure  have  suffered  change 
From  the  thick  darkness,  sure  its  eyes  are  dim, 
Its  silver  pinions  must  be  cramped  and  numbed 
With  sleeping  ages  here  ;  it  cannot  leave  me, 
For  it  would  seem,  in  light  beside  its  kind, 
Withered,  though  here  to  me  most  beautiful." 
And  then  I  was  a  young  witch  whose  blue  eyes, 
As  she  stood  naked  by  the  river  springs, 
Drew  down  a  god  ;  I  watched  his  radiant  form 
Growing  less  radiant,  and  it  gladdened  me  ; 
Till  one  morn,  as  he  sat  in  the  sunshine 
Upon  my  knees,  singing  to  me  of  heaven. 
He  turned  to  look  at  me,  ere  I  could  lose 
The  grin  with  which  T  viewed  his  perishing  : 
And  he  shrieked  and  departed  and  sat  long 
By  his  deserted  throne,  but  sunk  at  last 
Murmuring,  as  I  kissed  his  lips  and  curled 
Around  him,  "  I  am  still  a  god  —  to  thee." 
Still  I  can  lay  my  soul  bare  in  its  fall, 
For  all  the  wandering  and  all  the  weakness 
Will  be  a  saddest  comment  on  the  song  : 
And  if,  that  done,  I  can  be  young  again, 
I  will  give  up  all  gained,  as  willingly 
As  one  gives  up  a  charm  wliich  shuts  him  out 
From  hope  or  part  of  care  in  human  kind. 
As  life  wanes,  all  its  cares  and  strife  and  toil 
Seem  strangely  valueless,  while  the  old  trees 
Which  grew  by  our  youth's  home,  the  waving  mass 
Of  climbing  plants  heavy  with  bloom  and  dew. 
The  morning  swallows  with  tbeir  songs  like  words, 
All  these  seem  clear  and  only  worth  our  thoughts : 
So,  aught  connected  with  my  early  life. 
My  rude  songs  or  my  wild  imaginings. 
How  I  look  on  them  —  most  distinct  amid 
The  fever  and  the  stir  of  after  years  ! 

I  ne'er  had  ventured  e'er  to  hope  for  this ; 
Had  not  the  glow  I  felt  at  His  award, 
Assured  me  all  was  not  extinct  within  : 
His  whom  all  honor,  whose  renown  springs  up 
Like  sunlight  which  will  visit  all  the  world, 
So  that  e'en  they  who  sneered  at  him  at  first, 
Come  out  to  it,  as  some  dark  spider  crawls 
From  his  foul  nets  which  some  lit  torch  invades. 
Yet  spinning  still  new  films  for  his  retreat. 
Thou  didst  smile,  poet,  but  can  we  forgive  ? 


PA  ULINE 

Siin-treader,  life  and  light  be  thine  forever  ! 

Thou  art  gone  from  us  ;  years  go  by  and  spring 

Gladdens  and  the  young  earth  is  beautiful, 

Yet  thy  songs  come  not,  other  bards  arise. 

But  none  hke  thee  :  they  stand,  thy  majesties, 

Like  mighty  works  which  tell  some  spirit  there 

Hath  sat  regardless  of  neglect  and  scorn. 

Till,  its  long  task  completed,  it  hath  risen 

And  left  us,  never  to  return,  and  all 

Rush  in  to  peer  and  j^raise  when  all  in  vain. 

The  air  seems  bright  with  thy  past  presence  yet, 

But  thou  art  still  for  me  as  thou  hast  been 

When  I  have  stood  with  thee  as  on  a  throne 

With  all  thy  dim  creations  gathered  round 

Like  mountains,  and  I  felt  of  mould  like  them, 

And  creatures  of  my  own  were  mixed  with  them, 

Like  things  half-lived,  catching  and  giving  life. 

But  thou  art  still  for  me,  who  have  adored 

Though  single,  panting  but  to  hear  thy  name 

Which  I  believed  a  spell  to  me  alone. 

Scarce  deeming  thou  wast  as  a  star  to  men  ! 

As  one  should  worship  long  a  sacred  spring 

Scarce  worth  a  moth's  flitting,  which  long  grasses  cross, 

And  one  small  tree  embowers  droopingly, 

Joying  to  see  some  wandering  insect  won 

To  live  in  its  few  rushes,  or  some  locust, 

To  pasture  on  its  boughs,  or  some  wild  bird 

Stoop  for  its  freshness  from  the  trackless  air : 

And  then  should  find  it  but  the  fountain-head, 

Long  lost,  of  some  great  river  washing  towns 

And  towers,  and  seeing  old  woods  which  will  live 

But  by  its  banks  untrod  of  human  foot. 

Which,  when  the  great  sun  sinks,  lie  quivering 

In  light  as  some  thing  lieth  half  of  life 

Before  God's  foot,  waiting  a  wondrous  change  ; 

Then  girt  with  rocks  which  seek  to  turn  or  stay 

Its  course  in  vain,  for  it  does  ever  spread 

Like  a  sea's  arm  as  it  goes  rolling  on. 

Being  the  pulse  of  some  great  country  —  so 

Wast  thou  to  me,  and  art  thou  to  the  world  ! 

And  I,  perchance,  half  feel  a  strange  regret. 

That  I  am  not  what  I  have  been  to  thee  : 

Like  a  girl  one  has  loved  long  silently 

In  her  first  loveliness  in  some  retreat, 

When,  first  emerged,  all  gaze  and  glow  to  view 

Her  fresh  eyes  and  soft  hair  and  lips  which  bleed 


PA  ULINE 

Like  a  mountain  berry  :  doubtless  it  is  sweet 
To  see  her  thus  adored,  but  there  have  been 
Moments  when  all  the  world  was  in  his  praise, 
Sweeter  than  all  the  pride  of  after  hours. 
Yet,  sun-treader,  all  hail !     From  my  heart's  heart 
I  bid  thee  hail !     E'en  in  my  wildest  dreams, 
I  am  proud  to  feel  I  woidd  have  thrown  u])  all 
The  wreaths  of  fame  which  seemed  o'erhanging  me, 
To  have  seen  thee  for  a  moment  as  thou  art. 
And  if  thou  livest,  if  thou  lovest,  spirit ! 
Remember  me  who  set  this  final  seal 
To  wandering  thought  —  that  one  so  pure  as  thou 
Could  never  die.      Remember  me  who  flung 
All  honor  from  my  soul  yet  paused  and  said, 
"  There  is  one  spark  of  love  remaining  yet, 
For  I  have  nought  in  connnon  with  him,  shapes 
"Which  followed  him  avoid  me,  and  foul  forms 
Seek  me,  which  ne'er  could  fasten  on  his  mind ; 
And  though  I  feel  how  low  I  am  to  him, 
Yet  I  aim  not  even  to  catch  a  tone 
Of  all  the  harmonies  which  he  called  up  ; 
So,  one  gleam  still  remains,  although  the  last." 
Remember  me  who  praise  thee  e'en  with  tears. 
For  never  more  shall  I  walk  calm  with  thee  ; 
Thy  sweet  imaginings  are  as  an  air, 
A  melody  some  wondrous  singer  sings, 
Which,  though  it  haunt  men  oft  in  the  stiU  eve. 
They  dream  not  to  essay  ;  yet  it  no  less 
But  more  is  honored.     I  was  thine  in  shame. 
And  now  when  all  thy  proud  renown  is  out, 
I  am  a  watcher  whose  eyes  have  grown  dim 
AVith  looking  for  some  star  which  breaks  on  him 
Altered  and  worn  and  weak  and  full  of  tears. 

Autumn  has  come  like  spring  returned  to  us, 

AVon  from  her  girlishness ;  like  one  returned 

A  friend  that  was  a  lover  nor  forgets 

The  first  warm  love,  but  full  of  sober  thoughts 

Of  fading  years  ;  whose  soft  mouth  quivers  yet 

With  the  old  smile  but  yet  so  changed  and  still ! 

And  here  am  I  the  scoffer,  who  have  probed 

Life's  vanity,  won  by  a  word  again 

Into  my  own  life  —  for  one  little  word 

Of  this  sweet  friend  who  lives  in  loving  me. 

Lives  strangely  on  my  thoughts  and  looks  and  words, 

As  fathoms  down  some  nameless  ocean  thing 


PA  ULINE 

Its  silent  course  of  quietness  and  joy. 

0  dearest,  if  indeed  I  tell  the  past, 
Mayst  thou  forget  it  as  a  sad  sick  dream  ! 
Or  if  it  linger  —  my  lost  soul  too  soon 
Sinks  to  itself  and  whispers,  we  shall  be 

But  closer  linked,  two  creatures  whom  the  earth 
Bears  singly,  with  strange  feelings  unrevealed 
But  to  each  other  ;  or  two  lonely  things 
Created  by  some  power  whose  reign  is  done, 
Having  no  part  in  God  or  his  bright  world. 

1  am  to  sing  whilst  ebbing  day  dies  soft. 
As  a  lean  scholar  dies  worn  o'er  his  book, 
And  in  the  heaven  stars  steal  out  one  by  one 
As  hunted  men  steal  to  their  mountain  watch. 
I  must  not  think,  lest  this  new  impulse  die 

In  which  I  trust ;  I  have  no  confidence  : 
So,  I  will  sing  on  fast  as  fancies  come  ; 
Rudely,  the  verse  being  as  the  mood  it  paints. 

I  strip  my  mind  bare,  whose  first  elements 
I  shall  unveil  —  not  as  they  struggled  forth 
In  infancy,  nor  as  they  now  exist, 
That  I  am  grown  above  them  and  can  rule  — 
But  in  that  middle  stage  when  they  were  full 
Yet  ere  I  had  disposed  them  to  my  will ; 
And  then  I  shall  show  how  these  elements 
Produced  my  present  state,  and  what  it  is. 

I  am  made  up  of  an  intensest  life. 

Of  a  most  clear  idea  of  consciousness 

Of  self,  distinct  from  all  its  qualities, 

From  all  affections,  passions,  feelings,  powers  ; 

And  thus  far  it  exists,  if  tracked  in  all : 

But  linked,  in  me,  to  self-supremacy, 

Existing  as  a  centre  to  all  things. 

Most  potent  to  create  and  rule  and  call 

Upon  all  things  to  minister  to  it ; 

And  to  a  principle  of  restlessness 

Which  would  be  all,  have,  see,  know,  taste,  feel,  all 

This  is  myself ;  and  I  should  thus  have  been 

Thoujjh  oifted  lower  than  the  meanest  soul. 


o' 


And  of  my  powers,  one  springs  up  to  save 
From  utter  death  a  soul  with  such  desire 
Confined  to  clay  —  which  is  the  only  one 
Which  marks  me  —  an  imagination  which 


PA  ULTNE 

Has  been  an  angel  to  me,  coming  not 

In  fitful  visions  but  beside  me  ever 

And  never  failing  me  ;  so,  though  my  mind 

Forgets  not,  not  a  shred  of  life  forgets, 

Yet  I  can  take  a  secret  pride  in  calling 

Tlie  dark  past  up  to  quell  it  regally. 

A  mind  like  this  must  dissipate  itself. 

But  I  have  always  had  one  lode-star  ;  now, 

As  I  look  back,  I  see  that  I  have  wasted 

Or  progressed  as  I  looked  towards  that  star  — 

A  need,  a  trust,  a  yearning  after  God : 

A  feeling  I  have  analyzed  but  late, 

But  it  existed,  and  was  reconciled 

With  a  neglect  of  all  I  deemed  his  laws, 

Which  yet,  when  seen  in  others,  I  abhorred. 

I  felt  as  one  beloved,  and  so  shut  in 

From  fear  :  and  thence  I  date  my  trust  in  signs 

And  omens,  for  I  saw  God  everywhere  ; 

And  I  can  only  lay  it  to  the  fruit 

Of  a  sad  after-time  that  I  could  doubt 

Even  his  being  —  having  always  felt 

His  presence,  never  acting  from  myself, 

Still  trusting  in  a  hand  that  leads  me  tlirough 

All  danger  ;  and  this  feeling  still  has  fought 

Against  my  weakest  reason  and  resolve. 

And  I  can  love  nothing  —  and  this  dull  truth 
Has  come  the  last :  but  sense  supplies  a  love 
Encircling  me  and  mingling  with  my  life. 

These  make  myself  :  for  I  have  sought  in  vain 
To  trace  how  they  were  formed  by  circumstance, 
For  I  still  find  them  turning  my  wild  youth 
Where  they  alone  displayed  themselves,  converting 
All  objects  to  their  use  :  now  see  their  course. 

They  came  to  me  in  my  first  dawn  of  life 
Which  passed  alone  witli  wisest  ancient  books 
All  halo-girt  with  fancies  of  my  own  ; 
And  I  myself  went  with  the  tale  —  a  god 
Wandering  after  beauty,  or  a  giant 
Standing  vast  in  the  sunset  —  an  old  hunter 
Talking  with  gods,  or  a  high-crested  chief. 
Sailing  with  troojjs  of  friends  to  Tenedos. 


PA  ULINE  9 

I  tell  you,  nought  has  ever  been  so  clear 

As  the  place,  the  time,  the  fashion  of  those  lives : 

I  had  not  seen  a  work  of  lofty  art, 

Nor  woman's  beauty  nor  sweet  nature's  face, 

Yet,  I  say,  never  morn  broke  clear  as  tiiose 

On  the  dim  clustered  isles  in  the  blue  sea. 

The  deep  groves  and  white  temples  and  wet  caves : 

And  nothing  ever  will  surprise  me  now  — 

Who  stood  beside  the  naked  Swift-footed, 

Who  bound  my  forehead  with  Proserpine's  hair. 

And  strange  it  is  that  I  who  could  so  dream 

Should  e'er  have  stooped  to  aim  at  aught  beneath  — 

Aught  low,  or  painful ;  but  I  never  doubted, 

So,  as  I  grew,  I  rudely  shaped  my  life 

To  my  inmiediate  wants  ;  yet  strong  beneath 

Was  a  vague  sense  of  powers  folded  up  — 

A  sense  that  though  those  shadowy  times  were  past 

Their  spirit  dwelt  in  me,  and  I  should  rule. 

Then  came  a  pause,  and  long  restraint  chained  down 

My  soul  till  it  was  changed.     I  lost  myself, 

And  were  it  not  that  I  so  loathe  that  time, 

I  could  recall  how  first  I  learned  to  turn 

My  mind  against  itself  ;  and  the  effects 

In  deeds  for  which  remorse  were  vain  as  for 

The  wanderings  of  delirious  dream  ;  yet  thence 

Came  cunning,  envy,  falsehood,  which  so  long 

Have  spotted  me  :  at  length  I  was  restored. 

Yet  long  the  influence  remained  ;  and  nought 
But  the  still  life  I  led,  apart  from  all, 
Which  left  my  soul  to  seek  its  old  delights. 
Could  e'er  have  brought  me  thus  far  back  to  peace. 
As  peace  returned,  I  sought  out  some  pursuit ; 
And  song  rose,  no  new  impulse  but  the  one 
With  which  all  others  best  could  be  combined. 
My  life  has  not  been  that  of  those  whose  heaven 
Was  lampless  save  where  poesy  shone  out ; 
But  as  a  clime  where  glittering  mountain-toj)s 
And  glancing  sea  and  forests  steeped  in  light 
Give  back  reflected  the  far-flashing  sun  ; 
For  music  (which  is  earnest  of  a  heaven, 
Seeing  we  know  emotions  strange  by  it, 
Not  else  to  be  revealed,)  is  as  a  voice, 
A  low  voice  calhng  fancy,  as  a  friend, 


10  PAULINE 

To  the  green  woods  in  the  gay  summer  time : 
And  she  fills  all  the  way  with  dancing  shapes 
Wliich  have  made  painters  pale,  and  they  go  on 
While  stars  look  at  them  and  winds  call  to  them 
As  they  leave  life's  path  for  the  twilight  world 
Where  the  dead  gather.     This  was  not  at  first, 
For  I  scarce  knew  what  I  would  do.     I  had 
No  wish  to  paint,  no  yearning ;  but  I  sang. 

And  fu'st  I  sang  as  I  in  di*eam  have  seen 

Music  wait  on  a  lyrist  for  some  thought, 

Yet  singing  to  herself  until  it  came. 

I  turned  to  those  old  times  and  scenes  where  all 

That 's  beautiful  had  birth  for  me,  and  made 

Rude  verses  on  them  all ;  and  then  I  paused  — 

I  had  done  nothing,  so  I  sought  to  know 

What  mind  had  yet  acliieved.     No  fear  was  mine 

As  I  gazed  on  the  works  of  mighty  bards, 

In  the  first  joy  at  finding  my  own  thoughts 

Recorded  and  my  powers  exemplified, 

And  feeling  their  aspirings  were  my  own. 

And  then  I  first  explored  passion  and  mind ; 

And  I  began  afresh  ;  I  rather  sought 

To  rival  what  I  wondered  at,  than  form 

Creations  of  my  own ;  so,  much  was  light 

Lent  back  by  others,  yet  much  was  my  own. 

I  paused  again,  a  change  was  coming  on, 

I  was  no  more  a  boy,  the  past  was  breaking 

Before  the  coming  and  like  fever  worked. 

I  first  thought  on  myself,  and  here  my  powers 

Burst  out :   I  dreamed  not  of  restraint  but  gazed 

On  all  things :  schemes  and  systems  went  and  came, 

And  I  was  proud  (being  vainest  of  the  weak) 

In  wandering  o'er  them  to  seek  out  some  one 

To  be  my  own,  as  one  should  wander  o'er 

The  white  way  for  a  star. 

And  my  choice  fell 
Not  so  much  on  a  system  as  a  man  — 
On  one,  whom  praise  of  mine  would  not  offend, 
Who  was  as  calm  as  beauty,  being  such 
Unto  mankind  as  thou  to  me,  Pauline,  — 
Believing  in  them  and  devoting  all 
His  soul's  strength  to  their  winning  back  to  peace  ; 
Who  sent  forth  hopes  and  longings  for  their  sake, 


PA  ULINE  11 

Clothed  in  all  passion's  melodies,  which  first 

Caught  me  and  set  me,  as  to  a  sweet  task, 

To  gather  every  breathing  of  his  songs  : 

And  woven  with  them  there  were  words  which  seemed 

A  key  to  a  new  world,  the  muttering  i 

Of  angels  of  some  thing  unguessed  by  man. 

How  my  heart  beat  as  I  went  on  and  found 

Much  there,  I  felt  my  own  mind  had  conceived, 

But  there  living  and  burning !      Soon  the  whole 

Of  his  conceptions  dawned  on  me ;  their  praise 

Is  in  the  tongues  of  men,  men's  brows  are  high 

When  his  name  means  a  triumph  and  a  pride, 

So,  my  weak  hands  may  well  forbear  to  dim 

What  then  seemed  my  bright  fate  :  I  threw  myself 

To  meet  it,  I  was  vowed  to  liberty, 

Men  were  to  be  as  gods  and  earth  as  heaven, 

And  I  —  ah,  what  a  life  was  mme  to  be  ! 

My  whole  soul  rose  to  meet  it.     Now,  Pauline, 

1  shall  go  mad,  if  I  recall  that  time  ! 

Oh  let  me  look  back  ere  I  leave  forever 
The  time  which  was  an  hour  that  one  waits 
For  a  fair  girl  that  comes  a  withered  hag  ! 
And  I  was  lonely,  far  from  woods  and  fields. 
And  amid  dullest  sights,  who  should  be  loose 
As  a  stag  ;  yet  I  was  full  of  joy,  who  lived 
With  Plato  and  who  had  the  key  to  life  ; 
And  I  had  dimly  shaped  my  first  attempt. 
And  many  a  thought  did  I  build  up  on  thought. 
As  the  wild  bee  hangs  cell  to  cell  ;  in  vain, 
For  I  must  still  go  on,  my  mind  rests  not. 

'T  was  in  my  plan  to  look  on  real  life 

Which  was  all  new  to  me  ;  my  theories 

Were  firm,  so  I  left  them,  to  look  upon 

Men  and  their  cares  and  hopes  and  fears  and  joys  ; 

And  as  I  pondered  on  them  all  I  sought 

How  best  life's  end  might  be  attained  —  an  end 

Comprising  every  joy.     I  deeply  mused. 


And  suddenly  without  heart-wreck  I  awoke 

As  from  a  dream  :   I  said,  "  'T  was  beautiful 

Yet  but  a  dream,  and  so  adieu  to  it !  " 

As  some  world-wanderer  sees  in  a  far  meadow 

Strange  towers  and  walled  gardens  thick  with  trees, 

Where  singing  goes  on  and  delicious  mirth. 


12  PAULINE 

And  laughing  fairy  creatures  peeping  over, 
And  on  the  morrow  when  he  comes  to  live 
Forever  by  those  springs  and  trees  fruit-flushed 
And  fairy  bowers,  all  his  search  is  vain. 
First  went  my  hopes  of  perfecting  mankind, 
And  faitli  in  them,  then  freedom  in  itself 
And  virtue  in  itself,  and  then  my  motives,  ends 
And  powers  and  loves,  and  human  love  went  last. 
I  felt  this  no  decay,  because  new  powers 
Rose  as  old  feelings  left  —  wit,  mockery 
And  happiness  ;  for  I  had  oft  been  sad, 
Mistrusting  my  resolves,  but  now  I  cast 
Hope  joyously  away  :  I  laughed  and  said, 
"  No  more  of  this  !  "     I  must  not  think  :  at  length 
I  looked  again  to  see  how  all  went  on. 

My  powers  were  greater :  as  some  temple  seemed 
My  soul,  where  nought  is  changed  and  incense  rolls 
Around  the  altar,  only  God  is  gone 
And  some  dark  spirit  sitteth  in  his  seat. 
So,  I  passed  through  the  temple  and  to  me 
Knelt  troops  of  shadows,  and  they  cried,  '•  Hail,  king  ! 
We  serve  thee  now  and  thou  shalt  serve  no  more ! 
Call  on  us,  prove  us,  let  us  worship  thee  !  " 
And  I  said,  "  Are  ye  strong  ?     Let  fancy  bear  me 
Far  from  the  past !  "     And  I  was  borne  away, 
As  Arab  birds  float  sleeping  in  the  wind. 
O'er  deserts,  towers  and  forests,  I  being  calm  ; 
And  I  said,  "  I  have  nursed  up  energies. 
They  will  prey  on  me."     And  a  band  knelt  low 
And  cried,  "  Lord,  we  are  here  and  we  will  make 
A  way  for  thee  in  thine  appointed  life  ! 
Oh  look  on  us  !  "     And  I  said,  "  Ye  will  worship 
Me  ;  but  my  heart  must  worship  too."     They  shouted, 
"  Thyself,  thou  art  our  king  !  "     So,  I  stood  there 
SmiHng  .... 

And  buoyant  and  rejoicing  was  the  spirit 
With  which  I  looked  out  how  to  end  my  days  ; 
I  felt  once  more  myself,  my  powers  were  mine ; 
I  found  that  youth  or  health  so  lifted  me 
That,  spite  of  all  life's  vanity,  no  grief 
Came  nigh  me,  I  must  ever  be  light-hearted; 
And  that  this  feeling  was  the  only  veil 
Betwixt  me  and  despair :  so,  if  age  came, 
I  should  be  as  a  wreck  linked  to  a  soul 
Yet  fluttering,  or  mind-broken  and  aware 


PAULINE  13 

0£  my  decay.     So  a  long  sumraer  mom 
Found  me ;  and  ere  noon  came,  I  had  resolved 
No  age  should  come  on  me  ere  youth's  hope  went, 
For  I  would  wear  myself  out,  like  that  morn 
Which  wasted  not  a  sunbeam  ;  every  joy 
I  would  make  mine,  and  die.     And  thus  I  sought 
To  chain  my  spirit  down  which  I  had  fed 
With  thoughts  of  fame.      I  said,  "  The  troubled  life 
Of  genius,  seen  so  bright  when  working  forth 
Some  trusted  end,  seems  sad  when  all  in  vain  — 
Most  sad  when  men  have  parted  with  all  joy 
For  their  wild  fancy's  sake,  which  waited  first 
As  an  obedient  spirit  when  delight 
Came  not  with  her  alone  ;  but  alters  soon, 
Comes  darkened,  seldom,  hastening  to  depart, 
Leaving  a  heavy  darkness  and  warm  tears. 
But  I  shall  never  lose  her  ;  she  wUl  live 
Brighter  for  such  seclusion.     I  but  catch 
A  hue,  a  glance  of  what  I  sing,  so,  pain 
Is  linked  with  pleasure,  for  I  ne'er  may  tell 
The  radiant  sights  which  dazzle  me  ;  but  now 
They  shall  be  all  my  own  ;  and  let  them  fade 
Untold  —  others  shall  rise  as  fair,  as  fast ! 
And  when  all 's  done,  the  few  dim  gleams  transferred,"— 
(For  a  new  thought  sprung  up  that  it  were  well 
To  leave  all  shadowy  hope,  and  weave  such  lays 
As  would  encircle  me  with  praise  and  love, 
So,  I  should  not  die  utterly,  I  should  bring 
One  branch  from  the  gold  forest,  like  the  knight 
Of  old  tales,  witnessing  I  had  been  there)  — 
"  And  when  all 's  done,  how  vain  seems  e'en  success 
And  all  the  influcHce  poets  have  o'er  men  ! 
'T  is  a  fine  thing  that  one  weak  as  myself 
Should  sit  in  his  lone  room,  kno\ving  the  words 
He  utters  in  his  solitude  shall  move 
Men  like  a  swift  wind  —  that  though  he  be  forgotten, 
Fair  eyes  shall  glisten  when  his  beauteous  dreams 
Of  love  come  true  in  happier  frames  than  his. 
Ay,  the  still  night  brought  thoughts  like  these,  but  morn 
Came  and  the  mockery  again  laughed  out 
At  hollow  praises,  and  smiles  almost  sneers  ; 
And  my  soul's  idol  seemed  to  whisper  me 
To  dwell  with  him  and  his  unhonored  name : 
And  I  weil  knew  my  spirit,  that  would  be 
First  in  the  struggle,  and  again  would  make 
All  bow  to  it,  and  I  should  sink  again. 


14  PA  ULINE 

"  And  then  know  that  this  curse  will  come  on  us, 
To  see  our  idols  perish  ;  we  may  wither, 
Nor  marvel,  we  are  clay,  but  our  low  fate 
Should  not  extend  to  them,  whom  trustingly 
We  sent  before  into  time's  yawning  gulf 
To  face  whate'er  might  lurk  in  darkness  there. 
To  see  the  painter's  glory  pass,  and  feel 
Sweet  music  move  us  not  as  once,  or,  worst, 
To  see  decaying  wits  ere  the  frail  body 
Decays  !     Nought  makes  me  trust  in  love  so  really 
As  the  delight  of  the  contented  lowness 
AVith  which  I  gaze  on  souls  I  'd  keep  forever 
In  beauty  ;  I  'd  be  sad  to  equal  them  ; 
I  'd  feed  their  fame  e'en  from  my  heart's  best  blood, 
Withering  unseen  that  they  might  flourish  still." 

Pauline,  my  sweet  friend,  thou  dost  not  forget 

How  this  mood  swayed  me  when  thou  first  wast  mine, 

When  I  had  set  myself  to  live  tliis  life, 

Defying  all  opinion.     Ere  thou  earnest 

I  was  most  happy,  sweet,  for  old  delights 

Had  come  like  birds  again ;  music,  my  life, 

I  nourished  more  than  ever,  and  old  lore 

Loved  for  itself  and  all  it  shows  —  the  king 

Treading  the  purj)le  calmly  to  his  death, 

While  round  him,  like  the  clouds  of  eve,  all  diisk, 

The  giant  shades  of  fate,  silently  flitting, 

Pile  the  dim  outline  of  the  coming  doom  ; 

And  him  sitting  alone  in  blood  while  friends 

Are  hunting  far  in  the  sunshine  ;  and  the  boy 

With  his  white  breast  and  brow  and  clustering  curls 

Streaked  with  his  mother's  blood,  and  striving  hard 

To  tell  his  story  ere  his  reason  goes. 

And  when  I  loved  thee  as  I  've  loved  so  oft, 

Tliou  lovedst  me,  and  I  wondered  and  looked  in 

My  heart  to  find  some  feeling  like  such  love. 

Believing  I  was  still  what  I  had  been  ; 

And  soon  I  found  all  faith  had  gone  from  me, 

And  tlie  late  glow^  of  life,  changing  like  clouds, 

'Twas  not  the  niorn-blusli  widening  into  day. 

But  evening  colored  by  the  dying  sun 

While  darkness  is  quick  hastening.      I  will  tell 

My  state  as  though  'twere  none  of  mine  —  desjjair 

Cannot  come  near  me  —  thus  it  is  with  me. 

Souls  alter  not,  and  mine  must  progress  still ; 

And  this  I  knew  not  when  I  flung  away 


PAULINE  15 

My  youth's  chief  aims.     I  ne'er  supposed  the  loss 

Of  what  few  1  retained,  for  no  resource 

Awaits  nie  :  now  behold  the  change  of  all. 

I  cannot  chain  my  soul,  it  will  not  rest 

In  its  clay  prison,  this  most  narrow  si)here  : 

It  has  strange  powers  and  feelings  and  desires, 

Which  I  cannot  account  for  nor  explain, 

But  which  I  stifle  not,  being  bound  to  trust 

All  feelings  equally,  to  hear  all  sides : 

Yet  I  cannot  indulge  them,  and  they  live. 

Referring  to  some  state  or  life  unknown. 

My  selfishness  is  satiated  not, 

It  wears  me  like  a  flame  ;  my  hunger  for 

All  pleasure,  howsoe'er  minute,  is  pain  ; 

I  envy  —  how  I  envy  him  whose  mind 

Turns  with  its  energies  to  some  one  end. 

To  elevate  a  sect  or  a  pursuit 

However  mean  !     So.,  my  still  baffled  hopes 

Seek  out  abstractions  ;  I  would  have  but  one 

Delight  on  earth,  so  it  were  wholly  mine, 

One  rapture  all  my  soul  could  fill :  and  this 

Wild  feeling  places  me  in  dream  afar 

In  some  wild  country  where  the  eye  can  see 

No  end  to  the  far  hills  and  dales  bestrewn 

With  shining  towers  and  dwellings  :  I  grow  mad 

Well-nigh,  to  know  not  one  abode  but  holds 

Some  pleasure,  for  my  soul  could  grasp  them  all 

But  must  remain  with  this  vile  form.     I  look 

With  hope  to  age  at  last,  which  quenching  much, 

May  let  me  concentrate  the  sparks  it  spares. 

This  restlessness  of  passion  meets  in  me 
A  craving  after  knowledge  :  the  sole  proof 
Of  a  commanding  will  is  in  that  power 
Repressed  ;  for  I  beheld  it  in  its  dawn. 
That  sleepless  harpy  with  its  budding  wings, 
And  I  considered  whether  I  should  yield 
All  hopes  and  fears,  to  live  alone  with  it. 
Finding  a  recompense  in  its  "wild  eyes  ; 
And  when  I  found  that  I  should  perish  so, 
I  bade  its  wild  eyes  close  from  me  forever. 
And  I  am  left  alone  with  my  delights  ; 
So,  it  lies  in  me  a  chained  thing,  still  ready 
To  serve  me  if  I  loose  its  slightest  bond : 
I  cannot  but  be  j)roud  of  my  bright  slave. 


16  PAULINE 

And  thus  I  know  this  earth  is  not  my  sphere, 

For  I  cannot  so  narrow  me  but  that 

I  still  exceed  it :  in  their  elements 

My  love  would  pass  my  reason  ;  but  since  here 

Love  must  receive  its  objects  from  this  earth 

While  reason  will  be  chainless,  the  few  truths 

Caught  from  its  wanderings  have  sufficed  to  quell 

All  love  below  ;  then  what  must  be  that  love 

Which,  with  the  object  it  demands,  would  quell 

Reason  though  it  soared  with  the  seraphim  't 

No,  what  I  feel  may  pass  all  human  love 

Yet  fall  far  short  of  what  my  love  should  be. 

And  yet  I  seem  more  warped  in  this  than  aught, 

For  here  myself  stands  out  more  hideously  : 

I  can  forget  myself  in  friendship,  fame, 

Or  liberty,  or  love  of  mighty  souls  ; 

But  I  begin  to  know  what  thing  hate  is  — 

To  sicken  and  to  quiver  and  grow  white  — 

And  I  myself  have  furnished  its  first  prey. 

All  my  sad  wealaiesses,  this  wavering  will, 

This  selfishness,  this  still  decaying  frame  .  .  . 

But  I  must  never  grieve  while  I  can  pass 

Far  from  such  thoughts  —  as  now,  Andromeda  ! 

And  she  is  with  me  :  years  roll,  I  shall  change, 

But  change  can  touch  her  not  —  so  beautiful 

With  her  dark  eyes,  earnest  and  still,  and  hair 

Lifted  and  spread  by  the  salt-sweeping  breeze. 

And  one  red  beam,  all  the  storm  leaves  in  heaven. 

Resting  upon  her  eyes  and  face  and  hair 

As  she  awaits  the  snake  on  the  wet  beach 

By  the  dark  rock  and  the  white  wave  just  breaking 

At  her  feet ;  quite  naked  and  alone  ;  a  thing 

You  doubt  not,  nor  fear  for,  secure  that  God 

Will  come  in  thunder  from  the  stars  to  save  her. 

Let  it  pass  !     I  will  call  another  change. 

I  will  be  gifted  with  a  wondrous  soul, 

Yet  sunk  by  error  to  men's  sympathy. 

And  in  tlie  wane  of  life,  yet  only  so 

As  to  call  up  their  fears  ;  and  there  shall  come 

A  time  requiring  youth's  best  energies  ; 

And  straight  I  fiiiig  age,  sorrow,  sickness  off, 

And  I  rise  triumpliing  over  my  decay. 

And  thus  it  is  tliat  T  supply  the  chasm 
'Twixt  wliat  I  am  and  all  that  I  would  be  . 
But  then  to  know  nothing,  to  hope  for  nothing. 


PAULINE  17 

To  seize  on  life's  dull  joys  from  a  strange  fear 
Lest,  losing-  them,  all 's  lost  and  nought  remains  ! 

There  's  some  vile  juggle  with  my  reason  here  ; 

I  feel  I  but  explain  to  my  own  loss 

These  impulses  ;  they  live  no  less  the  same. 

Liberty  !   what  though  I  despair  ?  my  blood 

Rose  not  at  a  slave's  name  proudlier  than  now, 

And  sympathy,  obscured  by  sophistries  ! 

Why  have  not  I  sought  refuge  in  myself, 

But  for  the  woes  I  saw  and  could  not  stay  ? 

And  love !   do  I  not  love  thee,  my  Pauline  ? 

I  cherish  prejudice,  lest  I  be  left 

Utterly  loveless  —  witness  this  belief 

In  poets,  though  sad  change  has  come  there  too ; 

No  more  I  leave  myself  to  follow  them  — 

Unconsciously  I  measure  me  by  them  — 

Let  me  forget  it :   and  I  cherish  most 

My  love  of  England  —  how  her  name,  a  word 

Of  hers  in  a  strange  tongue  makes  my  heart  beat ! 

Pauline,  I  could  do  anything —  not  now  — 

All 's  fever  —  but  when  calm  shall  come  again, 

1  am  prepared :  I  have  made  life  my  own. 

I  would  not  be  content  with  all  the  chansre 

One  frame  should  feel,  but  I  have  gone  in  thought 

Through  all  conjuncture,  I  have  lived  all  life 

When  it  is  most  alive,  where  strangest  fate 

New  shapes  it  past  surmise  —  the  tales  of  men 

Bit  by  some  curse  or  in  the  grasps  of  doom 

Half-visible  and  still  increasing  round, 

Or  crowning  their  wide  being's  general  aim. 

These  are  wild  fancies,  but  I  feel,  sweet  friend. 
As  one  breathing  his  weakness  to  the  ear 
Of  pitying  angel  —  dear  as  a  winter  flower, 
A  slight  flower  growing  alone,  and  offering 
Its  frail  cup  of  three  leaves  to  the  cold  sun, 
Yet   joyous  and  confiding  like  the  triumph 
Of  a  child :  and  why  am  I  not  worthy  thee  ? 
I  can  live  ail  the  life  of  plants,  and  gaze 
Drowsily  on  the  bees  that  flit  and  play. 
Or  bare  my  breast  for  sunbeams  which  will  kill. 
Or  open  in  the  night  of  sounds,  to  look 
For  the  dim  stars ;  I  can  mount  with  the  bird 
Leaj)ing  airily  his  pyramid  of  leaves 


18  PA  ULINE 

And  twisted  boughs  of  some  tall  mountain  tree, 
Or  rise  cheerfully  springing  to  the  heavens  ; 
Or  like  a  fish  breathe-in  the  morning  air 
In  the  misty  sun-warm  water ;  or  with  flowers 
And  trees  can  smile  in  light  at  the  sinking  sun 
Just  as  the  storm  comes,  as  a  girl  would  look 
On  a  departing  lover  —  most  serene. 

Pauline,  eome  with  me,  see  how  I  could  build 
A  home  for  us,  out  of  the  world,  in  thought ! 
I  am  inspired  :  come  with  me,  Pauline  ! 

Night,  and  one  single  ridge  of  narrow  path 

Between  the  sullen  river  and  the  woods 

"Waving  and  muttering,  for  the  moonless  night 

Has  shaped  them  into  images  of  life. 

Like  the  upraising  of  the  giant-ghosts, 

Looking  on  earth  to  know  how  their  sons  fare  : 

Thou  art  so  close  by  me,  the  roughest  swell 

Of  wind  in  the  tree-toj^s  hides  not  the  panting 

Of  thy  soft  breasts.     No,  we  will  pass  to  morning  — 

Morning,  the  rocks  and  valleys  and  old  woods. 

IJow  the  sun  brightens  in  the  mist,  and  here, 

Half  in  the  air,  like  creatures  of  the  place. 

Trusting  the  element,  living  on  high  boughs 

That  swing  in  the  wind  —  look  at  the  golden  spray 

Flung  from  the  foam-sheet  of  the  cataract 

Amid  the  broken  rocks  !     Shall  we  stay  here 

With  the  wild  hawks  ?     No  ;  ere  the  hot  noon  come, 

Dive  we  down  —  safe  !     See  this  our  new  retreat 

Walled  in  with  a  slo2)ed  mound  of  matted  shrubs, 

Dark,  tangled,  old  and  green,  still  sloping  down 

To  a  small  pool  whose  waters  lie  asleep 

Amid  the  trailing  boughs  turned  water-plants : 

And  tall  trees  over-arch  to  keep  us  in. 

Breaking  the  sunbeams  into  emerald  shafts, 

And  in  the  dreamy  water  one  small  group 

Of  two  or  three  strange  trees  are  got  together 

Wondering  at  all  around,  as  strange  beasts  herd 

Together  far  from  their  own  land  :  all  wildness, 

No  turf  nor  moss,  for  boughs  and  plants  pave  all, 

And  tongues  of  bank  go  shelving  in  the  waters. 

Where  the  pale-throated  snake  reclines  his  head. 

And  old  gray  stones  lie  making  eddies  there, 

Tlio  wild-mice  cross  tliem  dry-shod  :  deeper  in  ! 

Shut  thy  soft  eyes  —  now  look  —  still  deejier  in  ! 


PA  ULINE  19 

This  is  the  very  heart  of  the  woods  all  round 

Mountain-like  heaped  above  us ;  yet  even  here 

One  pond  of  water  gleams  ;  far  off  the  river 

Sweeps  like  a  sea,  barred  out  from  land  ;  but  one  — 

One  thin  clear  sheet  has  overleaped  and  wound 

Into  this  silent  depth,  which  gained,  it  lies 

Still,  as  but  let  by  sufferance  ;  the  trees  bend 

O'er  it  as  wild  men  watch  a  sleeping  girl, 

And  through  their  roots  long  creeping  plants  stretch  out 

Their  twined  hair,  steeped  and  sparkling ;  farther  on, 

Tall  rushes  and  thick  flag-knots  have  combined 

To  narrow  it ;  so,  at  length,  a  silver  thread, 

It  winds,  all  noiselessly  through  the  deep  wood 

Till  through  a  cleft-way,  through  the  moss  and  stone. 

It  joins  its  parent-river  with  a  shout. 

Up  for  the  glowing  day,  leave  the  old  woods ! 

See,  they  part,  like  a  ruined  arch  :  the  sky  ! 

Nothing  but  sky  appears,  so  close  the  roots 

And  grass  of  the  hill-top  level  with  the  air  — 

Blue  sunny  air,  where  a  great  cloud  floats  laden 

With  light,  like  a  dead  whale  that  white  birds  pick, 

Floating  away  in  the  sun  in  some  north  sea. 

Air,  air,  fresh  life-blood,  thin  and  searching  air, 

The  clear,  dear  breath  of  God  that  loveth  us, 

Where  small  birds  reel  and  winds  take  their  delight  I 

Water  is  beautiful,  but  not  like  air : 

See,  where  the  solid  azure  waters  lie 

Made  as  of  thickened  air,  and  down  below. 

The  fern-ranks  like  a  forest  spread  themselves 

As  though  each  pore  could  feel  the  element ; 

Where  the  quick  glancing  serpent  winds  his  way, 

Float  with  me  there,  Pauline  !  —  but  not  like  air. 

Down  the  hill !     Stop  —  a  clump  of  trees,  see,  set 

On  a  heap  of  rocks,  which  look  o'er  the  far  plains. 

And  envious  climbing  shrubs  would  mount  to  rest 

And  peer  from  their  spread  boughs ;    there  they  wave, 

looking: 
At  the  muleteers  who  whistle  as  they  go 
To  the  merry  chime  of  their  morning  bells,  and  all 
The  little  smoking  cots  and  fields  and  banks 
And  copses  bright  in  the  sun.     My  spirit  wanders  : 
Hedge-rows  for  me  —  still,  living  hedge-rows  where 
The  bushes  close  and  clasp  above  and  keep 
Thought  in  —  I  am  concentrated  —  I  feel ; 
But  my  soul  saddens  when  it  looks  beyond : 
I  cannot  be  immortal  nor  taste  all. 


20  PA  ULINE 

0  God,  where  does  this  tend  —  these  strugghng  aims  ?  * 
What  woukl  I  have  ?  What  is  this  "  sleep  "  which  seems 
To  bound  all  ?  can  there  be  a  "■  waking  "  point 

Of  crowning  life  ?     The  soul  would  never  rule  ; 
It  would  be  first  in  all  things,  it  would  have 
Its  utmost  pleasure  filled,  but,  that  complete, 
Commanding,  for  commanding,  sickens  it. 
The  last  point  I  can  trace  is,  rest,  beneath 
Some  better  essence  than  itself,  in  weakness  ; 
This  is  "  myself,"  not  what  I  think  should  be  : 
And  what  is  that  I  hunger  for  but  God  ? 
My  God,  my  God,  let  me  for  once  look  on  thee 
As  though  nought  else  existed,  we  alone  ! 
And  as  creation  crumbles,  my  soul's  spark 
Expands  till  I  can  say,  —  Even  from  myself 

1  need  thee  and  I  feel  thee  and  I  love  thee  : 
I  do  not  plead  my  rapture  in  thy  works 
For  love  of  thee,  nor  that  I  feel  as  one 
Who  cannot  die  :  but  there  is  that  in  me 

Which  turns  to  thee,  which  loves  or  which  should  love. 
Why  have  I  girt  myself  with  this  hell-dress  ? 
Why  have  I  labored  to  put  out  my  life  ? 
Is  it  not  in  my  nature  to  adore, 

*  Je  erains  bien  que  mon  pauvre  ami  ne  soit  pas  toujours  parfaitement 
compris  clans  ce  qui  reste  h  lire  de  cet  Strange  fi'agiiiexit,  niais  il  est  moins 
propre  que  tout  autre  h  ^claircir  ce  qui  de  sa  nature  ne  pent  jamais  etre 
que  songe  et  confusion.  D'ailleurs  je  ne  sais  trop  si  en  cherchant  jI  mieux 
co-ordonner  certaines  parties  Ton  ne  eoun-ait  pas  le  risque  de  nuire  au  seul 
m^rite  auqiael  une  production  si  singiiliere  peut  pr^tendre,  celui  de  donner 
line  id^e  assez  precise  du  genre  qu'elle  n'a  fait  qu'^baucher.  Ce  d^but 
sans  pretention,  ce  remuement  des  passions  qui  va  d'abord  en  accroissant  et 
puis  s'appaise  par  degr^s,  ces  ^lans  de  Fame,  ce  retour  soudain  sur  soi- 
meme,  et  par-dessus  tout,  la  tournure  d' esprit  tout  particuli^re  de  mon 
ami,  rendent  les  changemens  presque  impossibles.  Les  i-aisons  qu'il  fait 
valoir  ailleurs,  et  d'autres  encore  plus  puissantes,  out  fait  trouver  grace  h, 
mes  yeux  pour  cet  ^crit  qu'autrement  je  lui  eusse  conseill(^  de  jeter  au  feu. 
Je  n'en  crois  pas  moins  au  grand  principe  de  toute  com])osition  —  h,  ce 
principe  de  Shakespeare,  de  Rafaelle,  de  Beethoven,  d'ou  il  suit  que  la 
concentration  des  id^es  est  due  bien  plus  k  leur  conception  qu*j\  leur  mise 
en  execution  :  j'ai  tout  lieu  de  craiudre  que  la  premiere  de  ces  qualit^s  ne 
soit  encore  ^trang^re  ;\  nu)n  ami,  et  je  doute  fort  qu'xin  redoublement  de 
travail  lui  fasse  acqu^rir  la  seconde.  Le  mieux  serait  de  bruler  ceci ;  mais 
que  faire  ? 

Je  crois  que  dans  ce  qui  suit  il  fait  allusion  {\  un  certain  examen  qu'il  fit 
autrefois  de  Tame  ou  plutot  de  son  ame,  pour  d^couvrir  la  suite  des  objets 
auxquels  il  lui  sei-ait  possible  d'attendre,  et  dont  chaeun  une  fois  obtenu 
dovait  former  une  esp^ce  de  plateau  d'oii  Ton  pouvait  apergevoir  d'autres 
huts,  d'autres  projets,  d'autres  jouissances  qui,  ;\  leur  tour,  devaient  etre 
surmontds.  II  en  rtisultait  que  Toubli  et  le  sommeil  devaient  tout  ter- 
miner. Cette  id(5e,  que  je  ne  saisis  pas  parfaitement,  lui  est  peutetre  aussi 
inintelligible  qu'k  moi.  Pauline. 


PA  ULINE  21 

And  e'en  for  all  my  reason  do  I  not 

Feel  him,  and  thank  him,  and  pray  to  him  —  now  ? 

Can  I  foreoo  the  trust  that  he  loves  me  ? 

Do  I  not  feel  a  love  which  only  one  .... 

0  thou  pale  form,  so  dimly  seen,  deep-eyed  ! 

1  have  denied  thee  calmly  —  do  I  not 
Pant  when  I  read  of  thy  consummate  deeds. 
And  burn  to  see  thy  calm  pure  truths  out-flash 
The  brightest  gleams  of  earth's  pliiloso2)hy  ? 
Do  I  not  shake  to  hear  aught  question  thee  ? 
If  I  am  erring  save  me,  madden  me, 

Take  from  me  powers  and  pleasures,  let  me  die 

Ages,  so  I  see  thee  !     I  am  knit  round 

As  with  a  charm  by  sin  and  lust  and  pride. 

Yet  though  my  wandering  dreams  have  seen  all  shapes 

Of  strange  delight,  oft  have  I  stood  by  thee  — 

Have  I  been  keeping  lonely  watch  with  thee 

In  the  damp  night  by  weeping  Olivet, 

Or  leaning  on  thy  bosom,  proudly  less. 

Or  dying  with  thee  on  the  lonely  cross, 

Or  witnessing  thy  bursting  from  the  tomb. 

A  mortal,  sin's  familiar  friend,  doth  here 
Avow  that  he  will  give  all  earth's  reward, 
But  to  believe  and  humbly  teach  the  faith, 
In  suffering  and  poverty  and  shame, 
Only  believing  he  is  not  unloved. 

And  now,  my  Pauline,  I  am  thine  forever ! 

I  feel  the  spirit  which  has  buoyed  me  up 

Deserting  me,  and  old  shades  gathering  on ; 

Yet  while  its  last  light  waits,  I  would  say  much, 

And  chiefly,  I  am  glad  that  I  have  said 

That  love  which  I  have  ever  felt  for  thee 

But  seldom  told  ;  our  hearts  so  beat  together 

That  speech  is  mockery  ;  but  when  dark  hours  come, 

And  I  feel  sad,  and  thou,  sweet,  deem'st  it  strange 

A  sorrow  moves  me,  thou  canst  not  remove, 

Look  on  this  lay  I  dedicate  to  thee. 

Which  through  thee  I  began,  and  which  I  end, 

Collecting  the  last  gleams  to  sti'ive  to  tell 

That  I  am  thine,  and  more  than  ever  now 

That  I  am  sinking  fast :  yet  though  I  sink. 

No  less  I  feel  that  thou  hast  brought  me  bliss 

And  that  I  still  may  hope  to  win  it  back. 

Thou  knowest,  dear  friend,  I  could  not  think  all  calm. 


22  PAULINE 

For  wild  dreams  followed  me  and  bore  me  off, 
And  all  was  indistinct ;  ere  one  was  caught 
Another  glanced  ;  so,  dazzled  by  my  wealth. 
Knowing  not  which  to  leave  nor  which  to  choose, 
For  all  my  thoughts  so  floated,  nought  w^as  fixed. 
And  then  thou  saidst  a  perfect  bard  was  one 
Who  shadow^ed  out  the  stages  of  all  hfe, 
And  so  thou  bad'st  me  tell  this  my  first  stage. 
'T  is  done,  and  even  now  I  feel  all  dim  the  shift 
Of  thought ;  these  are  my  last  thoughts  ;  I  discern 
Faintly  immortal  life  and  truth  and  good. 
And  why  thou  must  be  mine  is,  that  e'en  now 
In  the  dim  hush  of  night,  that  I  have  done, 
With  fears  and  sad  forebodings,  I  look  through 
And  say,  —  E'en  at  the  last  I  have  her  still, 
AVith  her  delicious  eyes  as  clear  as  heaven 
When  rain  in  a  quick  shower  has  beat  down  mist. 
And  clouds  float  white  in  the  sun  like  broods  of  swans. 
How  the  blood  lies  upon  her  cheek,  all  spread 
As  thinned  by  kisses  !  only  in  her  lips 
It  wells  and  pulses  like  a  living  thing, 
And  her  neck  looks  like  marble  misted  o'er 
With  love-breath,  —  a  dear  thing  to  kiss  and  love, 
Standing  beneath  me,  looking  out  to  me, 
As  I  might  kill  her  and  be  loved  for  it. 

Love  me  —  love  me,  Pauline,  love  nought  but  me. 
Leave  me  not !     All  these  words  are  wild  and  weak, 
Believe  them  not,  Pauline  I      I  stooped  so  low 
Bat  to  behold  thee  purer  by  my  side. 
To  show  thou  art  my  breath,  my  life,  a  last 
Resource,  an  extreme  want :   never  believe 
Aught  better  could  so  look  to  thee  ;  nor  seek 
Again  the  world  of  good  thoughts  left  for  me ! 
There  were  bright  troops  of  undiscovered  suns. 
Each  equal  in  their  radiant  course  ;  there  were 
Clusters  of  far  fair  isles  which  ocean  kept 
For  his  own  joy,  and  his  waves  broke  on  them, 
Without  a  choice ;  and  there  was  a  dim  crowd 
Of  visions,  each  a  part  of  the  dim  whole  : 
And  one  star  left  his  peers  and  came  with  peace 
Upon  a  storm,  and  all  eyes  pined  for  him  ; 
And  one  isle  harbored  a  sea-beaten  ship. 
And  the  crew  wandered  in  its  bowers  and  plucked 
Its  fruits  and  gave  up  all  their  hopes  for  home; 
And  one  dream  came  to  a  pale  poet's  sleep. 


PA  ULINE  23 

And  he  said,  "  I  am  singled  out  by  God, 

No  sin  must  touch  me."     I  am  very  weak, 

But  what  I  would  express  is,  —  Leave  me  not. 

Still  sit  by  me  with  beating  breast  and  hair 

Loosened,  be  watching  earnest  by  my  side, 

Turning  my  books  or  kissing  me  when  I 

Look  up  —  like  summer  wind  !     Be  still  to  me 

A  key  to  music's  mystery  wlien  mind  fails, 

A  reason,  a  solution  and  a  clue  ! 

You  see  I  have  thrown  off  my  prescribed  rules  : 

I  hope  in  myself  —  and  hope  and  i)ant  and  love. 

You  11  find  me  better,  know  me  more  than  when 

You  loved  me  as  I  was.     Smile  not !     1  have 

Much  yet  to  gladden  you,  to  dawn  on  you  ; 

No  more  of  the  past !     I  '11  look  within  no  more : 

I  have  too  trusted  to  my  own  wild  wants. 

Too  trusted  to  myself,  to  intuition  — 

Draining  the  wine  alone  in  the  still  night, 

And  seeing  how,  as  gathering  films  arose. 

As  by  an  inspiration  life  seemed  bare 

And  grinning  in  its  vanity,  and  ends 

Hard  to  be  dreamed  of,  stared  at  me  as  fixed. 

And  others  suddenly  became  all  foul 

As  a  fair  witch  turned  an  old  hagf  at  niirlit. 

No  more  of  this  !      We  will  go  hand  in  hand ; 

I  will  go  "with  thee,  even  as  a  child. 

Looking  no  farther  than  thy  sweet  commands. 

And  thou  hast  chosen  where  this  life  shall  be  : 

The  land  which  gave  me  thee  shall  be  our  home. 

Where  nature  lies  all  wild  amid  her  lakes 

And  snow-swathed  mountains  and  vast  pines  all  girt 

With  rojDes  of  snow  —  where  nature  lies  all  bare, 

Sufferinof  none  to  view  her  but  a  race 

Most  stinted  and  deformed,  like  the  mute  dwarfs 

Which  wait  upon  a  naked  Indian  queen. 

And  there  (the  time  being  when  the  heavens  are  thick 

With  storms)  I  '11  sit  with  thee  while  thou  dost  sing 

Thy  native  songs,  gay  as  a  desert  bird 

Who  crieth  as  he  flies  for  perfect  joy, 

Or  telling  me  old  stories  of  dead  knights ; 

Or  I  will  read  old  lavs  to  thee  —  how  she, 

The  fair  pale  sister,  went  to  her  chill  grave 

With  power  to  love  and  to  be  loved  and  live  : 

Or  we  will  go  together,  like  twin  gods 

Of  the  infernal  world,  witli  scented  lamp. 

Over  the  dead,  to  call  and  to  awake. 


24  PAULINE 

Over  the  unshaped  images  which  lie 

Within  my  mind's  cave  :  only  leaving  all 

That  tells  of  the  past  doubts.     So,  when  sjDring  comes, 

And  sunshine  comes  again  Hke  an  old  smile. 

And  the  fresh  waters  and  awakened  birds 

And  budding  woods  await  us,  I  shall  be 

Prepared,  and  we  will  go  and  think  again. 

And  all  old  loves  shall  come  to  us,  but  changed 

As  some  sweet  thought  which  harsh  words  veiled  before 

Feeling  God  loves  us,  and  that  all  that  errs 

Is  a  strange  dream  wliich  death  will  dissipate. 

And  then  when  I  am  firm,  we  11  seek  again 

My  own  land,  and  again  I  will  approach 

My  old  designs,  and  calmly  look  on  all 

The  works  of  my  past  weakness,  as  one  views 

Some  scene  where  danger  met  him  long  before. 

Ah  that  such  pleasant  life  should  be  but  dreamed  ! 

But  whate'er  come  of  it,  and  though  it  fade, 

And  though  ere  the  cold  morning  all  be  gone, 

As  it  will  be  ;  —  though  music  wait  for  me. 

And  fair  eyes  and  bright  wine  laughing  like  sin 

Which  steals  back  softly  on  a  soul  half  saved, 

And  I  be  first  to  deny  all,  and  despise 

This  verse,  and  these  intents  which  seem  so  fair,  — 

Still  this  is  all  my  own,  this  moment's  pride, 

No  less  I  make  an  end  in  perfect  joy. 

E'en  in  my  brightest  time,  a  lurking  fear 

Possessed  me  :  I  well  knew  my  weak  resolves, 

I  felt  the  witchery  that  makes  mind  sleep 

Over  its  treasure,  as  one  half  afraid 

To  make  his  riches  definite  :  but  now 

These  feeHngs  shall  not  utterly  be  lost, 

I  shall  not  know  again  that  nameless  care 

Lest,  leaving  all  undone  in  youth,  some  new 

And  undreamed  end  reveal  itself  too  late : 

For  this  song  shall  remain  to  tell  forever 

That  when  I  lost  all  hope  of  such  a  change, 

Suddenly  beauty  rose  on  me  again. 

No  less  I  make  an  end  in  perfect  joy, 

For  T,  liaving  thus  again  been  visited, 

Shall  doubt  not  many  another  bliss  awaits, 

And,  though  this  weak  soul  sink  and  darkness  come. 

Some  little  word  shall  light  it  up  again. 

And  I  shall  see  all  clearer  and  love  better, 

I  shall  again  go  o'er  the  tracts  of  thought 


PA  ULINE  25 

As  one  who  has  a  right,  and  I  shall  live 
With  poets,  calmer,  purer  still  each  time, 
And  beauteous  shapes  will  come  to  me  again, 
And  unknown  secrets  will  be  trusted  me 
Which  were  not  mine  when  waverino- ;  but  now 
I  shall  be  priest  and  lover  as  of  old. 


*&  ' 


Sun-treader,  I  believe  in  God  and  truth 
And  love  ;  and  as  one  just  escaped  from  death 
Would  bind  himself  in  bands  of  friends  to  feel 
He  lives  indeed,  so,  I  would  lean  on  thee ! 
Thou  must  be  ever  with  me,  most  in  gloom 
When  such  shall  come,  but  chiefly  when  I  die, 
For  I  seem,  dying,  as  one  going  in  the  dark 
To  fight  a  giant :  and  live  thou  forever, 
And  be  to  all  what  thou  hast  been  to  me  ! 
All  in  whom  this  wakes  pleasant  thoughts  of  me. 
Know  my  last  state  is  happy,  free  from  doubt 
Or  touch  of  fear.     Love  me  and  wish  me  well  1 

Richmond,  October  22,  1832. 


PARACELSUS 

INSCRIBED   TO 

AMEDEE  DE  RIPERT-MONCLAR 

BY   HIS   AFFECTIONATE    FRIEND 

London,  March  15,  1835.  R.    Bo 


PERSONS. 


AuREOLus  Paracelsus,  a  student. 
Festus  and  MiCHAL,  his  friends. 
Aprile,  an  Italian  poet. 


I.  PARACELSUS   ASPIRES. 

Scene,    Wurzburg ;  a  garden  in  the  environs.     1512. 
Festus,  Paracelsus,  Michal. 

Par.    Come  close  to  me,  dear  friends  ;  still  closer  ;  thus ! 
Close  to  the  heart  which,  though  long  time  roll  by 
Ere  it  again  beat  quicker,  pressed  to  yours, 
As  now  it  beats  —  perchance  a  long,  long  time  — 
At  least  henceforth  your  memories  shall  make 
Quiet  and  fragrant  as  befits  their  home. 
Nor  shall  my  memory  want  a  home  in  yours  — 
Alas,  that  it  requires  too  well  such  free 
Forgiving  love  as  shall  embalm  it  there  ! 
For  if  you  would  remember  me  aright, 
As  I  was  born  to  be,  you  must  forget 
All  fitful,  strange  and  moody  waywardness 
Which  e'er  confused  my  better  spirit,  to  dwell 
Only  on  moments  such  as  these,  dear  friends  ! 
—  My  heart  no  truer,  but  my  words  and  ways 
More  true  to  it :  as  Michal,  some  months  hence, 
Will  say,  "  this  autumn  was  a  pleasant  time," 
For  some  few  sunny  days ;  and  overlook 
Its  bleak  wind,  hankering  after  pining  leaves. 
Autumn  would  fain  be  sunny ;  I  would  look 


28  '  PARACELSUS 

Liker  my  nature's  truth  :  and  both  are  frail, 
And  both  beloved,  for  all  our  frailty. 

Mich.  Aureole ! 

Far.    Drop  by  drop !  she  is  weeping  like  a  child  ! 
Not  so  !     I  am  content  —  more  than  content ; 
Nay,  autumn  wins  you  best  by  this  its  mute 
Appeal  to  sympathy  for  its  decay  : 
Look  up,  sweet  Michal,  nor  esteem  the  less 
Your  stained  and  drooping  vines  their  grapes  bow  down, 
Nor  blame  those  creaking  trees  bent  with  their  fruit, 
That  apple-tree  with  a  rare  after-birth 
Of  peeping  blooms  sprinkled  its  wealth  among ! 
Then  for  the  winds  —  what  wind  that  ever  raved 
Shall  vex  that  ash  which  overlooks  you  both, 
So  proud  it  wears  its  berries  ?     Ah,  at  length, 
The  old  smile  meet  for  her,  the  lady  of  this 
Sequestered  nest  I  —  this  kingdom,  limited 
Alone  by  one  old  populous  green  wall 
Tenanted  by  the  ever-busy  flies. 
Gray  crickets  and  shy  lizards  and  quick  spiders, 
Each  family  of  the  silver-threaded  moss  — 
Which,  look  through  near,  this  way,  and  it  aj)pears 
A  stubble-field  or  a  cane-brake,  a  marsh 
Of  bidrush  whitening  in  the  sun  ;  laugh  now ! 
Fancy  the  crickets,  each  one  in  his  house, 
Looking  out,  wondering  at  the  world  —  or  best, 
Yon  painted  snail  with  his  gay  shell  of  dew, 
Travelling  to  see  the  glossy  balls  high  up 
Hung  by  the  caterpillar,  like  gold  lamps. 

Mich.    In  truth  we  have  lived  carelessly  and  well. 

Par.    And  shall,  my  perfect  pair  !  —  each,  trust  me,  born 
For  the  other ;  nay,  your  very  hair,  when  mixed. 
Is  of  one  hue.     For  where  save  in  this  nook 
Shall  you  two  walk,  when  I  am  far  away, 
And  wish  me  prosj)erous  fortune  ?     Stay  :  that  plant 
Shall  never  wave  its  tangles  lightly  and  softly. 
As  a  queen's  languid  and  imperial  arm 
Which  scatters  crowns  among  her  lovers,  but  you 
Shall  be  reminded  to  predict  to  me 
Some  great  success !     Ah  see,  the  sun  sinks  broad 
Behind  Saint  Saviour's  :   wholly  gone,  at  last ! 

Fest.    Now,  Aureole,  stay  those  wandering  eyes  awhile  I 
You  are  ours  to-niglit,  at  least ;  and  while  you  spoke 
Of  jMichal  and  her  tears,  I  thought  that  none 
Could  willing  leave  what  he  so  seemed  to  love  : 
But  that  last  look  destroys  my  dream  —  that  look 


PARACELSUS  29 

As  if,  where'er  you  gazed,  there  stood  a  star ! 
How  far  was  AVlirzburg  with  its  church  and  spire 
And  garden-walls  and  all  things  they  contain, 
From  that  look's  far  alighting  ? 

Par.  I  but  spoke 

And  looked  alike  from  simple  joy  to  see 
The  beings  I  love  best,  shut  in  so  well 
From  all  rude  chances  like  to  be  my  lot, 
That,  when  afar,  my  weary  spirit,  —  disposed 
To  lose  awhile  its  care  in  soothing  thoughts 
Of  them,  their  pleasant  features,  looks  and  words,  — 
NeedSk  never  hesitate,  nor  apprehend 
Encroaching  trouble  may  have  reached  them  too. 
Nor  have  recourse  to  fancy's  busy  aid 
And  fashion  even  a  wish  in  their  behalf 
Beyond  what  they  possess  already  here  ; 
But,  unobstructed,  may  at  once  forget 
Itself  in  them,  assured  how  well  they  fare. 
Beside;^  this  Festus  knows  he  holds  me  one 
Whom  quiet  and  its  charms  arrest  in  vain, 
One  scarce  aware  of  all  the  joys  I  quit. 
Too  filled  with  airy  hopes  to  make  account 
Of  soft  delights  his  own  heart  garners  up  : 
Whereas,behold  how  much  our  sense  of  all 
That's  beauteous  proves  alike  !     When  Festus  learns 
That  every  common  pleasure  of  the  world 
Affects  me  as  himself ;  that  I  have  just 
As  varied  appetite  for  joy  derived 
From  common  things  ;  a  stake  in  life,  in  short, 
Like  his  ;  a  stake  which  rash  pursuit  of  aims 
That  life  affords  not,  would  as  soon  destroy  ;  — 
He  may  convince  himself  that,  this  in  view, 
I  shall  act  well  advised.     And  last,  because, 
Thougli  heaven  and  earth  and  all  things  were  at  stake, 
Sweet  Michal  must  not  weep,  our  parting  eve. 

Fest.  True  :  and  the  eve  is  deepening,  and  we  sit 
As  little  anxious  to  begin  our  talk  • 

As  though  to-morrow  I  could  hint  of  it 
As  we  paced  arm-in-arm  the  cheerful  town 
At  sun-dawn  ;  or  could  whisper  it  by  fits 
(Trithemius  busied  with  his  class  the  while) 
In  that  dim  chamber  where  the  noon-streaks  peer 
Half-frightened  by  the  awful  tomes  around  ; 
Or  in  some  grassy  lane  unbosom  all 
From  even-blush  to  midnight :  but,  to-morrow ! 
Have  I  full  leave  to  tell  my  inmost  mind  ? 


30  PARACELSUS 

We  have  been  brothers,  and  henceforth  the  world 
AVill  rise  between  us  :  —  all  my  freest  mind  ? 
'T  is  the  last  night,  dear  Aureole  ! 

Pan  Oh,  say  on  ! 

Devise  some  test  of  love,  some  arduous  feat 
To  be  performed  for  you  :   say  on  !     If  night 
Be  spent  the  while,  the  better  !     Recall  how  oft 
My  wondrous  plans  and  dreams  and  hofjes  and  fears 
Have  —  never  wearied  you,  oh  no  !  —  as  I 
Recall,  and  never  vividly  as  now, 
Your  true  affection,  born  when  Einsiedeln 
And  its  green  hills  were  all  the  world  to  us  ; 
And  still  increasing  to  this  night  which  ends 
My  further  stay  at  Wiirzburg.     Oh,  one  day 
You  shall  be  very  proud  !     Say  on,  dear  friends  ! 

Fest.  In  truth  ?     'T  is  for  my  proper  peace,  indeed, 
Rather  than  yours  ;  for  vain  all  projects  seem 
To  stay  your  course  :  I  said  my  latest  hope 
Is  fading  even  now.     A  story  tells 
Of  some  far  embassy  dispatched  to  wui 
The  favor  of  an  eastern  king,  and  how 
The  gifts  they  offered  proved  but  dazzling  dust 
Shed  from  the  ore-beds  native  to  his  clime. 
Just  so,  the  value  of  repose  and  love, 
I  meant  should  tempt  you,  better  far  than  I 
You  seem  to  comprehend  ;  and  yet  desist 
No  whit  from  projects  where  repose  nor  love 
Have  part. 

Par.  Once  more  ?     Alas  !     As  I  foretold. 

Fest.  A  solitary  brier  the  bank  puts  forth 
To  save  our  swan's  nest  floating  out  to  sea. 

Par.  Dear  Festas,  hear  me.     What  is  it  you  wish  ? 
That  I  should  lay  aside  my  heart's  pursuit, 
Abandon  the  sole  ends  for  which  I  live. 
Reject  God's  great  commission,  and  so  die  ! 
You  bid  me  listen  for  your  true  love's  sake  : 
Yet  how  has  grown  that  love  ?     Even  in  a  long 
And  patient  cherishing  of  the  self-same  spirit 
It  now  would  quell ;  as  though  a  mother  hoi)ed 
To  stay  the  lusty  manhood  of  the  child 
Once  weak  u})on  her  knees.     I  was  not  born 
Informed  and  fearless  from  the  first,  but  shrank 
From  aught  which  marked  me  out  apart  from  men  : 
I  would  have  lived  their  life,  and  died  their  death, 
Lost  in  their  ranks,  eluding  destiny  : 
But  you  lirst  guided  me  through  doubt  and  fear, 


PARACELSUS  31 

Taught  me  to  know  mankind  and  know  myself  ; 
And  now  that  I  am  strong  and  full  of  hope, 
That,  from  my  soul,  I  can  reject  all  aims 
Save  those  your  earnest  words  made  plain  to  me, 
Now  that  I  touch  the  brink  of  my  design. 
When  I  would  have  a  triumph  in  their  eyes, 
A  glad  cheer  in  their  voices  —  Michal  weeps. 
And  Festus  ponders  gravely  ! 

Fest.  When  you  deign 

To  hear  my  purpose  .  .  . 

Par.  Hear  it  ?     I  can  say 

Beforehand  all  this  evening's  conference  ! 
'T  is  this  way,  Michal,  that  he  uses  :  first. 
Or  he  declares,  or  I,  the  leading  points 
Of  our  best  scheme  of  life,  what  is  man's  end 
And  what  God's  will ;  no  two  faiths  e'er  agreed 
As  his  with  mine.     Next,  each  of  us  allows 
Faith  should  be  acted  on  as  best  we  may ; 
Accordingly,  I  venture  to  submit 
My  plan,  in  lack  of  better,  for  pursuing 
The  path  which  God's  will  seems  to  authorize. 
Well,  he  discerns  much  good  in  it,  avows 
This  motive  worthy,  that  hope  plausible, 
A  danger  here  to  be  avoided,  there 
An  oversight  to  be  repaired  :  in  fine. 
Our  two  minds  go  together  —  all  the  good 
Approved  by  him,  I  gladly  recognize. 
All  he  counts  bad,  I  thankfully  discard. 
And  nought  forbids  my  looking  up  at  last 
For  some  stray  comfort  in  his  cautious  brow. 
When,  lo  I   I  learn  that,  spite  of  all,  there  lurks 
Some  innate  and  inexplicable  germ 
Of  failure  in  my  scheme  ;  so  that  at  last 
It  all  amounts  to  this  —  the  sovereign  proof 
That  we  devote  ourselves  to  God,  is  seen 
In  living  just  as  though  no  God  there  were  ; 
A  life  which,  promjDted  by  the  sad  and  blind 
Folly  of  man,  Festus  abhors  the  most ; 
But  which  these  tenets  sanctify  at  once. 
Though  to  less  subtle  wits  it  seems  the  same, 
Consider  it  how  they  may. 

Mich.  Is  it  so,  Festus  ? 

He  speaks  so  calmly  and  kindly  :  is  it  so  ? 

Par.  Reject  those  glorious  visions  of  God's  love 
And  man's  design  ;  laugh  loud  that  God  should  send 
Vast  longings  to  direct  us  ;  say  how  soon 


32  PARACELSUS 

Power  satiates  these,  or  lust,  or  gold  ;  I  know 
The  world's  cry  well,  and  how  to  answer  it. 
But  this  ambiguous  warfare  .  .  . 

Fest.  .  .  •  Wearies  so 

That  you  will  grant  no  last  leave  to  your  friend 
To  urge  it  ?  —  for  his  sake,  not  yours  ?     I  wish 
To  send  my  soul  in  good  hopes  after  you ; 
Never  to  sorrow  that  uncertain  words 
Erringly  apprehended,  a  new  creed 
111  understood,  begot  rash  trust  in  you, 
Had  share  in  your  undoing. 

Par.  Choose  your  side, 

Hold  or  renounce  :  but  meanwhile  blame  me  not 
Because  I  dare  to  act  on  your  own  views, 
Nor  shrink  when  they  point  onward,  nor  espy 
A  i^eril  where  they  most  ensure  success. 

P'est.    Prove  that  to  me  —  but  that !    Prove  you  abide 
Within  their  warrant,  nor  jDresumptuous  boast 
God's  labor  laid  on  you ;  prove,  all  you  covet, 
A  mortal  may  expect ;  and,  most  of  all, 
Prove  the  strange  course  you  now  affect,  will  lead 
To  its  attainment  —  and  I  bid  you  speed. 
Nay,  count  the  minutes  till  you  venture  forth ! 
You  smile  ;  but  I  had  gathered  from  slow  thought  — 
Much  musing  on  the  fortunes  of  my  friend  — 
Matter  I  deemed  could  not  be  urged  in  vain  ; 
But  it  all  leaves  me  at  my  need  :  in  shreds 
And  fragments  I  must  venture  what  remains. 

Mich.  Ask  at  once,  Festus,  wherefore  he  should  scorn. 

Fest.  Stay,  Michal :  Aureole,  I  speak  guardedly 
And  gravely,  knowing  well,  whate'er  your  error, 
This  is  no  ill-considered  choice  of  yours, 
No  sudden  fancy  of  an  ardent  boy. 
Not  from  your  own  confiding  words  alone 
Am  I  aware  your  passionate  heart  long  since 
Gave  birth  to,  nourished  and  at  length  matures 
This  scheme.     I  will  not  speak  of  Einsiedeln, 
AVhere  I  was  born  your  elder  by  some  years 
Only  to  watch  you  fully  from  the  first : 
In  all  beside,  our  mutual  tasks  were  fixed 
Even  then  —  't  was  mine  to  have  you  in  my  view 
As  you  had  your  own  soul  and  those  intents 
Which  filled  it  when,  to  crown  your  dearest  wish, 
With  a  tumultuous  heart,  you  left  with  me 
Our  childli :)0(rs  home  to  join  the  favored  few 
Whom,  here,  Trithemius  condescends  to  teach 


PARACELSUS  33 

A  portion  of  his  lore  :  and  not  one  youth 

Of  those  so  favored,  whom  you  now  despise, 

Came  earnest  as  you  came,  resolved,  like  you, 

To  grasp  all,  and  retain  all,  and  deserve 

By  patient  toil  a  wide  renown  like  his. 

Now,  this  new  ardor  which  supplants  the  old 

I  watched,  too  ;  't  was  significant  and  strange, 

In  one  matched  to  his  soul's  content  at  length 

With  rivals  in  the  search  for  wisdom's  prize, 

To  see  the  sudden  pause,  the  total  change  ; 

From  contest,  the  transition  to  repose  — 

From  pressing  onward  as  his  fellows  pressed, 

To  a  blank  idleness,  yet  most  unlike 

The  dull  stagnation  of  a  soul,  content. 

Once  foiled,  to  leave  betimes  a  thriveless  quest. 

That  careless  bearing,  free  from  all  pretence 

Even  of  contempt  for  what  it  ceased  to  seek  — 

Smiling  humility,  praising  much,  yet  waiving 

What  it  professed  to  praise  —  though  not  so  well 

Maintained  but  that  rare  outbreaks,  fierce  and  brief. 

Revealed  the  hidden  scorn,  as  quickly  curbed. 

That  ostentatious  show  of  past  defeat, 

That  ready  acquiescence  in  contempt, 

I  deemed  no  other  than  the  letting  go 

His  shivered  sword,  of  one  about  to  spring 

Upon  his  foe's  throat ;  but  it  was  not  thus  : 

Not  that  way  looked  your  brooding  purpose  then. 

For  after-signs  disclosed,  what  you  confirmed, 

That  you  prepared  to  task  to  the  uttermost 

Your  strength,  in  furtherance  of  a  certain  aim 

Which  —  while  it  bore  the  name  your  rivals  gave 

Their  own  most  puny  efforts  —  was  so  vast 

In  scope  that  it  included  their  best  flights, 

Combined  them,  and  desired  to  gain  one  prize 

In  place  of  many,  —  the  secret  of  the  world. 

Of  man,  and  man's  true  purpose,  path  and  fate. 

—  That  you,  not  nursing  as  a  mere  vague  dream 

This  purpose,  with  the  sages  of  the  past. 

Have  struck  upon  a  way  to  this,  if  all 

You  trust  be  true,  which  following,  heart  and  soul, 

You,  if  a  man  may,  dare  aspire  to  know  : 

And  that  this  aim  shall  differ  from  a  host 

Of  aims  alike  in  character  and  kind. 

Mostly  in  this,  —  that  in  itself  alone 

Shall  its  reward  be,  not  an  alien  end 

Blending  therewith  ;  no  hope  nor  fear  nor  joy 


34  PARACELSUS 

Nor  woe,  to  elsewhere  move  you,  but  this  jDure 
Devotion  to  sustain  you  or  betray : 
Thus  you  aspire. 

Far.    You  shall  not  state  it  thus  : 
I  should  not  differ  from  the  dreamy  crew 
You  speak  of.     I  profess  no  other  share 
In  the  selection  of  my  lot,  than  this 
My  ready  answer  to  the  will  of  God 
Who  summons  me  to  be  his  organ.     All 
Whose  innate  strength  supports  them  shall  succeed 
No  better  than  the  sages. 

Fest.  Such  the  aim,  then, 

God  sets  before  you  ;  and  't  is  doubtless  need 
That  he  appoint  no  less  the  way  of  praise 
Than  the  desire  to  praise  ;  for,  though  I  hold, 
With  you,  the  setting  forth  such  jjraise  to  be 
The  natural  end  and  service  of  a  man, 
And  hold  such  praise  is  best  attained  when  man 
Attains  the  general  welfare  of  his  kind  — 
Yet  this,  the  end,  is  not  the  instrument. 
Presume  not  to  serve  God  apart  from  such 
Apf)ointed  channel  as  he  wills  shall  gather 
Imperfect  tributes,  for  that  sole  obedience 
Valued  j^erchance.     He  seeks  not  that  his  altars 
Blaze,  careless  how,  so  that  they  do  but  blaze. 
Suppose  this,  then  ;  that  God  selected  you 
To  KNOAV  (heed  well  your  answers,  for  my  faith 
Shall  meet  imijlicltly  what  they  affirm), 
I  cannot  think  you  dare  annex  to  such 
Selection  aught  beyond  a  steadfast  will. 
An  intense  hope  ;  nor  let  your  gifts  create 
Scorn  or  neglect  of  ordinary  means 
Conducive  to  success,  make  destiny 
Dispense  with  man's  endeavor.     Now,  dare  you  search 
Your  inmost  heart,  and  candidly  avow 
Whether  you  have  not  rather  wild  desire 
For  this  distinction  than  security 
Of  its  existence  ?  whether  you  discern 
The  path  to  the  fulfilment  of  your  jjurpose 
Clear  as  that  purpose  —  and  again,  that  purpose 
Clear  as  your  yearning  to  be  singled  out 
For  its  pursuer.     Dare  you  answer  this  ? 

Far.  {after  a  pause).     No,  I  have  nought  to  fear  !  Who 
will  may  know 
The  secret'st  workings  of  my  soul.    What  though 
It  be  so  ?  —  if  indeed  the  strong  desire 


PARACELSUS  35 

Eclipse  the  aim  in  me  ?  —  if  splendor  break 

Upon  the  outset  of  my  path  alone, 

And  duskest  shade  succeed  ?     What  fairer  seal 

Shall  I  require  to  my  authentic  mission 

Than  this  fierce  energy  ?  —  this  instinct  striving 

Because  its  nature  is  to  strive  ?  —  enticed 

By  the  security  of  no  broad  course, 

"Without  success  forever  in  its  eyes ! 

How  know  I  else  such  glorious  fate  my  own, 

But  in  the  restless  irresistible  force 

That  works  within  me  ?    Is  it  for  human  will 

To  institute  such  impulses  ?  —  still  less, 

To  disregard  their  promptings  !     What  should  I 

Do,  kept  among  you  all ;  your  loves,  your  cares, 

Your  life  —  all  to  be  mine  ?     Be  sure  that  God 

Ne'er  dooms  to  waste  the  strength  he  deigns  impart ! 

Ask  the  gier-eagle  why  she  stoops  at  once 

Into  the  vast  and  unexj^lored  abyss. 

What  full-grown  power  informs  her  from  the  first, 

Why  she  not  marvels,  strenuously  beating 

The  silent  boundless  regions  of  the  sky  I 

Be  sure  they  sleep  not  whom  God  needs  !     Nor  fear 

Their  holding  light  his  charge,  when  every  hour 

That  finds  that  charge  delayed,  is  a  new  death. 

This  for  the  faith  in  which  I  trust ;  and  hence 

I  can  abjure  so  well  the  idle  arts 

These  pedants  strive  to  learn  and  teach  ;  Black  Arts, 

Great  Works,  the  Secret  and  Sublime,  forsooth  — 

Let  others  prize  :   too  intimate  a  tie 

Connects  me  with  our  God  !     A  sullen  fiend 

To  do  my  bidding,  fallen  and  hateful  sprites 

To  help  me  —  what  are  these,  at  best,  beside 

God  helping,  God  directing  everywhere. 

So  that  the  earth  shall  yield  her  secrets  up, 

And  every  object  there  be  charged  to  strike, 

Teach,  gratify  her  master  God  appoints  ? 

And  I  am  young,  my  Festus,  happy  and  free ! 

I  can  devote  myself  ;   I  have  a  life 

To  give  ;  I,  singled  out  for  this,  the  One ! 

Think,  think ;  the  wide  East,  where  all  Wisdom  sprung ; 

The  bright  South,  where  she  dwelt ;  the  hopeful  North, 

All  are  passed  o'er  —  it  lights  on  me  !     'T  is  time 

New  hopes  should  animate  the  world,  new  light 

Should  dawn  from  new  revealings  to  a  race 

Weighed  down  so  long,  forgotten  so  long  ;  thus  shall 

The  heaven  reserved  for  us  at  last  receive 


36  PARACELSUS 

Creatures  whom  no  unwonted  splendors  blind, 

But  ardent  to  confront  the  unclouded  blaze. 

Whose  beams  not  seldom  blessed  their  pilgrimage, 

Not  seldom  glorified  their  life  below. 

Fest.  My  words  have  their  old  fate  and  make  faint  stand 

Against  your  glowing  periods.     Call  this,  truth  — 

Why  not  j^ursue  it  in  a  fast  retreat, 

Some  one  of  Learning's  many  palaces. 

After  approved  examj)le  ?  —  seeking  there 

Calm  converse  with  the  great  dead,  soul  to  soul, 

Who  laid  up  treasure  with  the  like  intent 

—  So  lift  yourself  into  their  airy  i)lace. 

And  fill  out  full  their  unfulfilled  careers. 

Unravelling  the  knots  their  baflled  skill 

Pronounced  inextricable,  true  I  —  but  left 

Far  less  confused.     A  fresh  eye,  a  fresh  hand, 

Might  do  much  at  their  vigor's  waning-point ; 

Succeeding  with  new-breathed  new-hearted  force, 

As  at  old  games  the  runner  snatched  the  torch 

From  runner  still :   this  way  success  might  be. 

But  you  have  coupled  with  your  enterprise 

An  arbitrary  self-rei3Ugnant  scheme 

Of  seeking  it  in  strange  and  untried  paths. 

AVhat  books  are  in  the  desert  ?     Writes  the  sea 

The  secret  of  her  yearning  in  vast  caves 

Where  yours  will  fall  the  first  of  human  feet  ? 

Has  wisdom  sat  there  and  recorded  aught 

You  press  to  read  ?     Why  turn  aside  from  her 

To  visit,  where  her  vesture  never  glanced, 

Now  —  solitudes  consigned  to  barrenness 

By  God's  decree,  which  who  shall  dare  impugn  ? 

Now  —  ruins  where  she  paused  but  would  not  stay, 

Old  ravaged  cities  that,  renouncing  her. 

She  called  an  endless  curse  on,  so  it  came  : 

Or  worst  of  all,  now  —  men  you  visit,  men, 

Ignoblest  troops  who  never  heard  her  voice 

Or  hate  it,  men  without  one  gift  from  Rome 

Or  Athens,  —  these  shall  Aureole's  teachers  be  ! 

Rejecting  past  example,  practice,  precept. 

Aidless  'mid  these  he  thinks  to  stand  alone : 

Thick  like  a  glory  round  the  Stagirite 

Your  rivals  tlirong,  the  sages  :  here  stand  you  ! 

Whatever  you  may  protest,  knowledge  is  not 

Paramount  in  your  love  ;  or  for  her  sake 

You  would  collect  all  help  from  every  source  — 

Rival,  assistant,  friend,  foe,  all  would  merge 


PARACELSUS 

In  the  broad  class  of  those  who  showed  her  haunts, 
And  those  who  showed  them  not. 

Far.  What  shall  I  say  ? 

Festus,  from  childhood  I  have  been  possessed 
By  a  lire  —  by  a  true  lire,  or  faint  or  fierce, 
As  from  without  some  master,  so  it  seemed, 
Repressed  or  urged  its  current :  this  but  ill 
Expresses  what  I  would  convey  :  but  rather 
I  will  believe  an  angel  ruled  me  thus, 
Than  that  my  soul's  own  workings,  own  high  nature, 
So  became  manifest.     I  knew  not  then 
What  whispered  in  the  evening,  and  sjDoke  out 
At  midnight.     If  some  mortal,  born  too  soon. 
Were  laid  away  in  some  great  trance  —  the  ages 
Coming  and  going  all  the  while  —  till  dawned 
His  true  time's  advent ;  and  could  then  record 
The  words  they  spoke  who  kept  watch  by  his  bed,  — 
Then  I  might  tell  more  of  the  breath  so  light 
Upon  my  eyelids,  and  the  fingers  light 
Among  my  hair.     Youth  is  confused  ;  yet  never 
So  dull  was  I  but,  when  that  spirit  passed, 
I  turned  to  him,  scarce  consciously,  as  turns 
A  water-snake  when  fairies  cross  his  sleep. 
And  having  this  within  me  and  about  me 
While  Einsiedeln,  its  mountains,  lakes  and  woods 
Confined  me  —  what  opjjressive  joy  was  mine 
When  life  grew  plain,  and  I  first  viewed  the  thronged, 
The  everlasting  concourse  of  mankind  ! 
Believe  that  ere  I  joined  them,  ere  I  knew 
The  purpose  of  the  pageant,  or  the  jilace 
Consigned  me  in  its  ranks  —  while,  just  awake, 
Wonder  was  freshest  and  delight  most  pure  — 
'T  was  then  that  least  supportable  apj^eared 
A  station  with  the  brightest  of  the  crowd, 
A  portion  with  the  proudest  of  them  all. 
And  from  the  tumult  in  my  breast,  this  only 
Could  I  collect,  that  I  must  thenceforth  die 
Or  elevate  myself  far,  far  above 
The  gorgeous  spectacle.     I  seemed  to  long 
At  once  to  trample  on  yet  save  mankind, 
To  make  some  unexampled  sacrifice 
In  their  behalf,  to  wring  some  wondrous  good 
From  heaven  or  earth  for  them,  to  perish,  winning 
Eternal  weal  in  the  act :  as  who  should  dare 
Pluck  out  the  angry  thunder  from  its  cloud, 
That,  all  its  gathered  flame  discharged  on  him, 


38  PARACELSUS 

No  storm  might  threaten  summer's  azure  sleep  : 
Yet  never  to  be  mixed  with  men  so  much 
As  to  have  part  even  in  my  own  work,  share 
In  my  own  largess.     Once  the  feat  achieved, 
I  would  withdraw  from  their  officious  praise, 
Would  gently  put  aside  their  profuse  thanks. 
Like  some  knight  traversing  a  wilderness, 
"Who,  on  his  way,  may  chance  to  free  a  tribe 
Of  desert-people  from  their  dragon-foe  ; 
When  all  the  swarthy  race  press  round  to  kiss 
His  feet,  and  choose  him  for  their  king,  and  yield 
Their  poor  tents,  pitched  among  the  sand-hills,  for 
His  realm  :  and  he  points,  smiling,  to  his  scarf 
Heavy  with  riveled  gold,  his  burgonet 
Gay  set  with  twinkling  stones  —  and  to  the  East, 
Where  these  must  be  displayed  ! 

Fest.  Good  :  let  us  hear 

No  more  about  your  nature,  "  which  first  shrank 
From  all  that  marked  you  out  ajDart  from  men  !  " 

Par.    I  touch  on  that;  these  words  but  analyze 
The  first  mad  impulse  :   't  was  as  brief  as  fond. 
For  as  I  gazed  again  uj)on  the  show, 
I  soon  disting-ulshed  here  and  there  a  shape 
Palm-wreathed  and  radiant,  forehead  and  full  eye. 
Well  pleased  was  I  their  state  should  thus  at  once 
Interpret  my  own  thoughts  :  —  "  Behold  the  clue 
To  all,"  I  rashly  said,  "  and  what  I  pine 
To  do,  these  have  accomj:>lished  :  we  are  peers. 
They  know,  and  therefore  rule  :  I,  too,  will  know  !  " 
You  were  beside  me,  Festus,  as  you  say  ; 
You  saw  me  plunge  in  their  pursuits  whom  fame 
Is  lavish  to  attest  the  lords  of  mind. 
Not  pausing  to  make  sure  the  prize  in  ^aew 
Would  satiate  my  cravings  when  obtained, 
But  since  they  strove  I  strove.     Then  came  a  slow 
And  strangling  failure.     We  aspired  alike. 
Yet  not  the  meanest  plodder,  Tritheim  counts 
A  marvel,  but  was  all-sufficient,  strong, 
Or  staggered  only  at  his  own  vast  wits ; 
While  I  was  restless,  nothing  satisfied. 
Distrustful,  most  perplexed.     I  would  slur  over 
That  struggle  ;  suffice  it,  that  I  loathed  myself 
As  weak  compared  with  them,  yet  felt  somehow 
A  mighty  power  was  brooding,  taking  shape 
Within  me  ;  and  this  lasted  till  one  night 
When,  as  I  sat  revolving  it  and  more, 


PARACELSUS  39  0 

A  still  voice  from  without  said  —  "  Seest  thou  not, 
DesiJoiiding  child,  whence  spring  defeat  and  loss  ? 
Even  from  thy  strength.     Consider  :  hast  thou  gazed 
Presumptuously  on  wisdom's  countenance, 
No  veil  between  ;  and  can  thy  faltering  hands, 
Unguided  by  tlie  brain  the  sight  absorbs, 
Pursue  their  task  as  earnest  blinkers  do 
Whom  radiance  ne'er  distracted  ?     Live  their  life 
If  thou  wouldst  share  their  fortune,  choose  their  eyes 
Unfed  by  splendor.     Let  each  task  present 
Its  petty  good  to  thee.     Waste  not  thy  gifts 
In  profitless  waiting  for  the  gods'  descent. 
But  have  some  idol  of  thine  own  to  dress 
W^ith  their  array.     Know,  not  for  knowing's  sake, 
But  to  become  a  star  to  men  forever ; 
Know,  for  the  gain  it  gets,  the  i)raise  it  brings, 
The  wonder  it  inspires,  the  love  it  breeds : 
Look  one  step  onward,  and  secure  that  step  !" 
And  I  smiled  as  one  never  smiles  but  once, 
Then  first  discovering  my  own  aim's  extent, 
Which  sought  to  comprehend  the  works  of  God, 
And  God  himself,  and  all  God's  intercourse 
With  the  human  mind  ;  I  understood,  no  less, 
l\Iy  fellows'  studies,  whose  true  worth  I  saw. 
But  smiled  not,  well  aware  who  stood  by  me. 
And  softer  came  the  voice  —  "  There  is  a  way: 
'T  is  hard  for  flesh  to  tread  therein,  imbued 
With  frailty  —  hopeless,  if  indulgence  first 
Have  rijDened  inborn  germs  of  sin  to  strength : 
Wilt  thou  adventure  for  my  sake  and  man's, 
Apart  from  all  reward  ?  "     And  last  it  breathed  — 
"  Be  happy,  my  good  soldier  ;  I  am  by  thee. 
Be  sure,  even  to  the  end  !  "  —  I  answered  not. 
Knowing  him.     As  he  spoke,  I  was  endued 
With  comprehension  and  a  steadfast  will ; 
And  vvlien  he  ceased,  my  brow  was  sealed  his  own. 
If  there  took  place  no  special  change  in  me. 
How  comes  it  all  things  wore  a  different  hue 
Thenceforward  ?  —  pregnant  with  vast  consequence, 
Teeming  with  grand  result,  loaded  with  fate  ? 
So  that  when,  quailing  at  the  mighty  range 
Of  secret  truths  which  yearn  for  birth,  I  haste 
To  contemplate  undazzled  some  one  truth, 
Its  bearings  and  effects  alone  —  at  once 
What  was  a  speck  expands  into  a  star, 
Asking  a  life  to  pass  exploring  thus. 


40  PARACELSUS 

Till  I  near  craze.     I  go  to  prove  my  soul ! 
I  see  my  way  as  birds  their  trackless  way. 
I  shall  arrive  !  what  time,  what  circuit  first, 
I  ask  not :  but  unless  God  send  his  hail 
Or  blinding  fireballs,  sleet  or  stifling  snow. 
In  some  time,  his  good  time,  I  shall  arrive : 
He  guides  me  and  the  bird.     In  his  good  time ! 

Mich.  Vex  him  no  further,  Festus  ;  it  is  so  ! 

Fest,  Just  thus  you  help  me  ever.     This  would  hold 
Were  it  the  trackless  air,  and  not  a  path 
Inviting  you,  distinct  with  footprints  yet 
Of  many  a  mighty  marcher  gone  that  way. 
You  may  have  purer  views  than  theirs,  perhaps, 
But  they  were  famous  in  their  day  —  the  proofs 
Remain.     At  least  accept  the  light  they  lend. 

Pa7\  Their  light !  the  sum  of  all  is  briefly  this  : 
They  labored  and  grew  famous,  and  the  fruits 
Are  best  seen  in  a  dark  and  groaning  earth 
Given  over  to  a  blind  and  endless  strife 
With  evils,  what  of  all  their  lore  abates  ? 
No  ;  I  reject  and  spurn  them  utterly 
And  all  they  teach.     Shall  I  still  sit  beside 
Their  dry  wells,  with  a  white  lip  and  filmed  eye, 
While  in  the  distance  heaven  is  blue  above 
Mountains  where  sleep  the  unsunned  tarns  ? 

Fest,  And  yet 

As  strong  delusions  have  prevailed  ere  now 
Men  have  set  out  as  gallantly  to  seek 
Their  ruin.     1  have  heard  of  such  :  yourself 
Avow  all  hitherto  have  failed  and  fallen. 

Mich.  Nay,  Festus,  when  but  as  the  pilgrims  faint 
Through  the  drear  way,  do  you  expect  to  see 
Their  city  dawn  amid  the  clouds  afar  ? 

Par.  Ay,  sounds  it  not  like  some  old  well-known  tale  ? 
For  me,  I  estimate  their  works  and  them 
So  rightly,  that  at  times  I  almost  dream 
I  too  have  spent  a  life  the  sages'  way, 
And  tread  once  more  familiar  paths.     Perchance 
I  perished  in  an  arrogant  self-reliance 
Ages  ago  ;  and  in  that  act,  a  prayer 
For  one  more  chance  went  up  so  earnest,  so 
Instinct  with  better  light  let  in  by  death. 
That  life  was  blotted  out  —  not  so  completely 
But  scattered  wrecks  enough  of  it  remain, 
Dim  memories,  as  now,  when  once  more  seems 
The  goal  in  sight  again.     All  which,  indeed, 


PARACELSUS  41 

Is  foolish,  and  only  means  —  the  flesh  I  wear, 
The  earth  I  tread,  are  not  more  clear  to  me 
Than  my  belief,  explained  to  you  or  no. 

Fest.  And  who  am  I,  to  challenge  and  dispute 
That  clear  belief  ?      I  will  divest  all  fear. 

Mich.  Then  Aureole  is  God's  commissary  !  he  shall 
Be  great  and  grand  —  and  all  for  us  ! 

Par.  No,  sweet! 

Not  great  and  grand.  If  I  can  serve  mankind 
'T  is  well ;  but  there  our  intercourse  must  end  : 
I  never  will  be  served  by  those  I  serve. 

Fest.    Look  well  to  this  ;  here  is  a  plague-spot,  here, 
Disguise  it  how  you  may  !      'T  is  true,  you  utter 
This  scorn  while  by  our  side  and  loving  us ; 
'T  is  but  a  spot  as  yet :  but  it  will  break 
Into  a  hideous  blotch  if  overlooked  ; 
How  can  that  course  be  safe  which  from  the  first 
Produces  carelessness  to  human  love  ? 
It  seems  you  have  abjured  the  heljjs  which  men 
Who  overpass  their  kind,  as  you  would  do. 
Have  humbly  sought ;  I  dare  not  thoroughly  probe 
This  matter,  lest  I  learn  too  much.     Let  be 
That  popular  praise  would  little  instigate 
Your  efforts,  nor  particular  approval 
Reward  you  ;  put  reward  aside;  alone 
You  shall  go  forth  upon  your  arduous  task, 
None  shall  assist  you,  none  partake  your  toil, 
None  share  your  triumph  :  still  you  must  retain 
Some  one  to  cast  your  glory  on,  to  share 
Your  rapture  with.     Were  I  elect  like  you, 
I  would  encircle  me  with  love,  and  raise 
A  rampart  of  my  fellows  ;  it  should  seem 
Impossible  for  me  to  fail,  so  watched 
By  gentle  friends  who  made  my  cause  their  own. 
They  should  ward  off  fate's  envy  —  the  great  gift, 
Extravagant  when  claimed  by  me  alone, 
Being  so  a  gift  to  them  as  well  as  me. 
If  danger  daunted  me  or  ease  seduced, 
How  calmly  their  sad  eyes  should  gaze  reproach ! 

Mich.  O  Aureole,  can  I  sing  when  all  alone, 
Without  first  calling,  in  my  fancy,  both 
To  listen  by  my  side  —  even  I !     And  you  ? 
Do  you  not  feel  this  ?     Say  that  you  feel  this  ! 

Par.  I  feel  't  is  pleasant  that  my  aims,  at  length 
Allowed  their  weight,  should  be  supposed  to  need 
A  further  strengthening  in  these  goodly  helps  ! 


42  PARACELSUS 

My  course  allures  for  its  own  sake,  its  sole 
Intrinsic  worth  ;  and  ne'er  shall  boat  of  mine 
Adventure  forth  for  gold  and  apes  at  once. 
Your  sages  say,  "  if  human,  therefore  weak  :  " 
If  weak,  more  need  to  give  myself  entire 
To  my  pursuit ;   and  by  its  side,  all  else  .   .  . 
No  matter  !     I  deny  myself  but  little 
In  waiving  all  assistance  save  its  own. 
Would  there  were  some  real  sacrifice  to  make ! 
Your  friends  the  sages  threw  their  joys  away, 
While  I  must  be  content  with  keeping  mine. 

Fest.  But  do  not  cut  yourself  from  human  weal ! 
You  cannot  thrive  —  a  man  that  dares  affect 
To  spend  his  life  in  service  to  his  kind 
For  no  reward  of  theirs,  unbound  to  them 
By  any  tie  ;  nor  do  so,  Aureole  !      No  — 
There  are  strange  punishments  for  such.     Give  up 
(Although  no  visible  good  flow  thence)  some  part 
Of  the  glory  to  another  ;  hiding  thus, 
Even  from  yourself,  that  all  is  for  yourself. 
Say,  say  almost  to  God  —  "I  have  done  all 
For  her,  not  for  myself  !  " 

Par.  And  who  but  lately 

Was  to  rejoice  in  my  success  like  you  ? 
Whom  should  I  love  but  both  of  you  ? 

Fest,  I  know  not : 

But  know  this,  you,  that  't  is  no  will  of  mine 
You  should  abjure  the  lofty  claims  you  make  ; 
And  this  the  cause  —  I  can  no  longer  seek 
To  overlook  the  truth,  that  there  would  be 
A  monstrous  spectacle  upon  the  earth. 
Beneath  the  pleasant  sun,  among  the  trees : 
—  A  being  knowing  not  what  love  is.     Hear  me  ! 
You  are  endowed  with  faculties  which  bear 
Annexed  to  them  as  't  were  a  dispensation 
To  summon  meaner  s})irits  to  do  their  will 
And  gather  round  them  at  their  need  ;  inspiring 
Such  with  a  love  themselves  can  never  feel, 
Passionless  'mid  their  passionate  votaries. 
I  know  not  if  you  joy  in  this  or  no, 
Or  ever  dream  tliat  common  men  can  live 
On  objects  you  ])rize  lightly,  but  which  make 
Their  heart's  sole  treasure  :  the  affections  seem 
Beauteous  at  most  to  you,  which  we  must  taste 
Or  die  :  and  this  strange  quality  accords, 
I  know  not  how,  with  you  ;  sits  well  upon 


PARACELSUS  43 

That  luminous  brow,  though  in  another  it  scowls 

An  eating  brand,  a  shame.     I  dare  not  judge  you. 

The  rules  of  right  and  wrong  thus  set  aside, 

There  's  no  alternative  —  I  own  you  one 

Of  higher  order,  under  other  laws 

Than  bind  us  ;  therefore,  curb  not  one  bold  glance  ! 

'T  is  best  aspire.     Once  mingled  with  us  all  .  .  . 

Mich.  Stay  with  us,  Aureole  !  cast  those  hoj)es  away, 
And  stay  with  us  !     An  angel  Avarns  me,  too, 
Man  should  be  humble ;  you  are  very  proud  : 
And  God,  dethroned,  has  doleful  jjlagues  for  such ! 
—  Warns  me  to  have  in  dread  no  quick  repulse. 
No  slow  defeat,  but  a  complete  success  : 
You  will  find  all  you  seek,  and  perish  so  ! 

Far.   {aftey  a  pause).     Are  these  the  barren  first-fruits 
of  my  quest  ? 
Is  love  like  this  the  natural  lot  of  all  ? 
How  many  years  of  pain  might  one  such  hour 
O'erbalance  ?     Dearest  Michal,  dearest  Festus, 
What  shall  I  say,  if  not  that  I  desire 
To  justify  your  love ;  and  will,  dear  friends, 
In  swerving  nothing  from  my  first  resolves. 
See,  the  great  moon  !   and  ere  the  mottled  owls 
Were  wide  awake,  I  was  to  go.     It  seems 
You  acquiesce  at  last  in  all  save  this  — 
If  I  am  like  to  compass  what  I  seek 
By  the  untried  career  I  choose  ;  and  then. 
If  that  career,  making  but  small  account 
Of  much  of  life's  delight,  will  yet  retain 
Sufficient  to  sustain  my  soul :  for  thus 
I  understand  these  fond  fears  just  expressed. 
And  first ;  the  lore  you  praise  and  I  neglect, 
The  labors  and  the  precepts  of  old  time, 
I  have  not  lightly  disesteemed.     But,  friends. 
Truth  is  within  ourselves  ;  it  takes  no  rise 
From  outward  things,  whate'er  you  may  believe. 
There  is  an  inmost  centre  in  us  all, 
Where  truth  abides  m  fulness  ;  and  around. 
Wall  upon  wall,  the  gross  flesh  hems  it  in. 
This  perfect,  clear  perception  —  which  is  truth, 
A  baffling  and  perverting  carnal  mesh 
Blinds  it,  and  makes  all  error :   and,  to  KNOW, 
Rather  consists  in  opening  out  a  way 
Whence  the  imprisoned  splendor  may  escape, 
Than  in  effecting  entry  for  a  light 
Supposed  to  be  without.     Watch  narrowly 


44  PARACELSUS 

The  demonstration  of  a  truth,  its  birth, 

And  you  trace  back  the  effluence  to  its  spring 

And  source  within  us  ;  where  broods  radiance  Vast, 

To  be  ehcited  ray  by  ray,  as  chance 

Shall  favor  :  chance  —  for  hitherto,  your  sage 

Even  as  he  knows  not  how  those  beams  are  born, 

As  little  knows  he  what  unlocks  their  fount. 

And  men  have  oft  grown  old  among  their  books 

To  die  case-hardened  in  their  ignorance. 

Whose  careless  youth  had  promised  what  long  years 

Of  unremitted  labor  ne'er  performed  : 

While,  contrary,  it  has  chanced  some  idle  day, 

To  autumn  loiterers  just  as  fancy-free 

As  the  midges  in  the  sun,  gives  birth  at  last 

To  truth  —  produced  mysteriously  as  cape 

Of  cloud  grown  out  of  the  invisible  air. 

Hence,  may  not  truth  be  lodged  alike  in  all, 

The  lowest  as  the  highest  ?  some  slight  film 

The  interposing  bar  which  binds  a  soul 

And  makes  the  idiot,  just  as  makes  the  sage 

Some  film  removed,  the  happy  outlet  whence 

Truth  issues  proudly  ?     See  this  soul  of  ours  ! 

How  it  strives  weakly  in  the  child,  is  loosed 

In  manhood,  clogged  by  sickness,  back  compelled 

By  age  and  waste,  set  free  at  last  by  death ; 

Why  is  it,  flesh  enthralls  it  or  enthrones  ? 

What  is  this  flesh  we  have  to  penetrate? 

Oh,  not  alone  when  life  flows  still,  do  truth 

And  power  emerge,  but  also  when  strange  chance 

Ruffles  its  current ;  in  unused  conjuncture, 

When  sickness  breaks  the  body  —  hunger,  watching, 

Excess  or  languor  —  of tenest  death's  approach, 

Peril,  deep  joy  or  woe.     One  man  shall  crawl 

Through  life  surrounded  with  all  stirring  things, 

Unmoved  ;  and  he  goes  mad  :    and  from  the  wreck 

Of  what  he  was,  by  his  wild  talk  alone, 

You  first  collect  how  great  a  spirit  he  hid. 

Therefore,  set  free  the  soul  alike  in  all. 

Discovering  the  true  laws  by  which  the  flesh 

Accloys  the  spirit  I      We  may  not  be  doomed 

To  cope  with  seraphs,  but  at  least  the  rest 

Shall  cope  with  us.     Make  no  more  giants,  God, 

But  elevate  the  race  at  once !      We  ask 

To  put  forth  just  our  strength,  our  human  strength, 

All  starting  fairly,  all  equipped  alike. 

Gifted  alike,  all  eagle-eyed,  true-hearted  — 


1 


PARACELSUS  45 

See  if  we  cannot  beat  thine  angels  yet ! 

Such  is  my  task.     I  go  to  gather  this 

The  sacred  knowledge,  here  and  there  dispersed 

About  the  world,  long  lost  or  never  found. 

And  why  should  I  be  sad  or  lorn  of  hope  ? 

Wliy  ever  make  man's  good  distinct  from  God's, 

Or,  finding  they  are  one,  why  dare  mistrust  ? 

Who  shall  succeed  if  not  one  pledged  like  me  ? 

Mine  is  no  mad  attempt  to  build  a  world 

Apart  from  his,  like  those  who  set  themselves 

To  find  the  nature  of  the  spirit  they  bore, 

And,  taught  betimes  that  all  their  gorgeous  dreams 

Were  only  born  to  vanish  in  this  life, 

Refused  to  fit  them  to  its  narrow  sphere. 

But  chose  to  figure  forth  another  world 

And  other  frames  meet  for  their  vast  desires,  — 

And  all  a  dream  !      Thus  was  life  scorned  ;    but  life 

Shall  yet  be  crowned  :   twine  amaranth  !     I  am  priest ! 

And  all  for  yielding  with  a  lively  spirit 

A  i30or  existence,  parting  with  a  youth 

Like  those  who  squander  every  energy 

Convertible  to  good,  on  painted  toys. 

Breath-bubbles,  gilded  dust !     And  though  I  spurn 

All  adventitious  aims,  from  empty  praise 

To  love's  award,  yet  whoso  deems  such  helps 

Important,  and  concerns  himself  for  me, 

May  know  even  these  will  follow  with  the  rest  — - 

As  in  the  steady  rolling  Mayne,  asleep 

Yonder,  is  mixed  its  mass  of  schistous  ore. 

My  own  affections,  laid  to  rest  awhile, 

Will  waken  purified,  subdued  alone 

By  all  I  have  achieved.     Till  then  —  till  then  .  .  . 

Ah,  the  time-wiling  loitering  of  a  page 

Through  bower  and  over  lawn,  till  eve  shall  bring 

The  stately  lady's  presence  whom  he  loves  — 

The  broken  sleep  of  the  fisher  whose  rough  coat 

Enwraps  the  queenly  pearl  —  these  are  faint  types  ! 

See,  see  they  look  on  me  :  I  triumph  now  ! 

But  one  thing,  Festus,  Michal !   I  have  told 

All  I  shall  e'er  disclose  to  mortal :  say  — 

Do  you  believe  I  shall  accomplish  this  ? 
Fest.  I  do  believe  ! 

Mich.  I  ever  did  believe  I 

Par.  Those  words  shall  never  fade  from  out  my  brain  ! 

This  earnest  of  the  end  shall  never  fade  ! 

Are  there  not,  Festus,  are  there  not,  dear  Michal, 


46  PARACELSUS 

Two  points  in  the  adventure  of  the  diver, 
One  —  when,  a  beggar,  he  fjrepares  to  plunge, 
One  —  when,  a  prince,  he  rises  with  his  pearl  ? 
Festus,  I  plunge ! 

Fest.  We  wait  you  when  you  rise  ! 


II.   PARACELSUS  ATTAINS. 

Scene,  Coristantinople  ;  the  house  of  a  Greek  conjurer.     1521. 

Paracelsus. 

Over  the  waters  in  the  vaporous  West 

The  sun  goes  down  as  in  a  sphere  of  gold 

Behind  the  arm  of  the  city,  which  between. 

With  all  that  length  of  domes  and  minarets, 

Athwart  the  splendor,  black  and  crooked  runs 

Like  a  Turk  verse  along  a  scimitar. 

There  lie,  sullen  memorial,  and  no  more 

Possess  my  acliing  sight !     'T  is  done  at  last. 

Strange  —  and  the  juggles  of  a  sallow  cheat 

Have  won  me  to  this  act !     'T  is  as  yon  cloud 

Should  voyage  unwrecked  o'er  many  a  mountain-top 

And  break  upon  a  molehill.     I  have  dared 

Come  to  a  pause  with  knowledge  ;  scan  for  once 

The  heights  already  reached,  without  regard 

To  the  extent  above ;  fairly  compute 

All  I  have  clearly  gained ;  for  once  excluding 

A  brilliant  future  to  supply  and  perfect 

All  half-gains  and  conjectures  and  crude  hopes : 

And  all  because  a  fortune-teller  wills 

His  credulous  seekers  should  inscribe  thus  much. 

Their  previous  life's  attainment,  in  his  roll, 

Before  his  promised  secret,  as  he  vaunts. 

Make  up  the  sum  :  and  here,  amid  the  scrawled 

Uncouth  recordings  of  the  dupes  of  this 

Old  arcli-genethlia(;,  lie  my  life's  results ! 

A  few  blurred  characters  suffice  to  note 

A  stranger  wandered  long  through  many  lands 

And  reaped  the  fruit  he  coveted  in  a  few 

Discoveries,  as  appended  here  and  there. 

The  fragmentary  produce  of  much  toil, 

In  a  dim  hea]),  fact  and  surmise  together 

Confusedly  massed  as  when  acquired ;  he  was 


PARACELSUS  47 

Intent  on  gain  to  come  too  much  to  stay 
And  scrutinize  the  little  gained  :  the  whole 
Slipt  in  the  blank  space  "twixt  an  idiot's  gibber 
And  a  mad  lover's  ditty  —  there  it  lies. 

And  yet  those  blottings  chronicle  a  life  — 
A  wliole  life,  and  my  life !     Nothing  to  do, 
No  problem  for  the  fancy,  but  a  life 
Spent  and  decided,  wasted  past  retrieve 
Or  worthy  beyond  peer.     Stay,  what  does  this 
Remembrancer  set  down  concerning  "life  "  ? 
*' '  Time  fleets,  youth  fades,  life  is  an  empty  dream,' 
It  is  the  echo  of  time ;  and  he  whose  heart 
Beat  first  beneath  a  human  heart,  whose  speech 
AVas  copied  from  a  human  tongue,  can  never 
Recall  when  he  was  living  yet  knew  not  this. 
Nevertheless  long  seasons  pass  o'er  him 
Till  some  one  hour's  experience  sliows  what  nothing. 
It  seemed,  could  clearer  show ;  and  ever  after, 
An  altered  brow  and  eye  and  gait  and  speech 
Attest  that  now  he  knows  the  adage  true, 
*  Time  fleets,  youth  fades,  life  is  an  empty  dream.'  " 

Ay,  my  brave  chronicler,  and  this  same  hour 
As  well  as  any  :  now,  let  my  time  be  ! 

Now  !    I  can  go  no  farther  ;  well  or  ill, 

'T  is  done.     I  must  desist  and  take  my  chance. 

I  cannot  keep  on  the  stretch :   't  is  no  back-shrinking  — 

For  let  but  some  assurance  beam,  some  close 

To  my  toil  grow  visible,  and  I  proceed 

At  any  price,  though  closing  it,  I  die. 

Else,  here  I  pause.     The  old  Greek's  prophecy 

Is  like  to  turn  out  true  :     '"I  shall  not  quit 

His  chamber  till  I  know  what  I  desire !  " 

Was  it  the  liirht  wind  sane;  it  o'er  the  sea  ? 


& 


An  end,  a  rest !  strange  how  the  notion,  once 
Encountered,  gathers  strength  by  moments  !     Rest ! 
Where  has  it  kept  so  long  ?  this  throbbing  brow 
To  cease,  this  beating  heart  to  cease,  all  cruel 
And  fjnawino;'  thoughts  to  cease !     To  dare  let  down 

o  c?  o 

My  strung,  so  higli-strung  brain,  to  dare  unnerve 
My  harassed  o'ertasked  frame,  to  know  my  place. 
My  portion,  my  reward,  even  my  failure. 
Assigned,  made  sure  forever  !     To  lose  myself 


18  PARACELSUS 

Among  the  common  creatures  of  the  world, 

To  draw  some  gain  from  having  been  a  man, 

Neither  to  hope  nor  fear,  to  Uve  at  length  ! 

Even  in  failure,  rest  I      But  rest  in  truth 

And  power  and  recomj)ense  ...  I  hojjed  that  once ! 

What,  sunk  insensibly  so  deep  ?     Has  all 

Been  undergone  for  this  ?     This  the  request 

My  labor  qualified  me  to  present 

With  no  fear  of  refusal  ?     Had  I  gone 

Slightingly  through  my  task,  and  so  judged  fit 

To  moderate  my  hopes  ;  nay,  were  it  now 

My  sole  concern  to  exculpate  myself, 

End  things  or  mend  them,  —  why,  I  could  not  choose 

A  humbler  mood  to  wait  for  the  event ! 

No,  no,  there  needs  not  this  ;  no,  after  all, 

At  worst  I  have  performed  my  share  of  the  task  ; 

The  rest  is  God's  concern  ;  mine,  merely  this. 

To  know  that  I  have  obstinately  held 

By  my  own  work.     The  mortal  whose  brave  foot 

Has  trod,  unscathed,  the  temple-court  so  far 

That  he  descries  at  length  the  shrine  of  shrines, 

Must  let  no  sneering  of  the  demons'  eyes, 

AVhom  he  could  pass  unquailing,  fasten  now 

Upon  him,  fairly  past  their  power;  no,  no  — 

He  must  not  stagger,  faint,  fall  down  at  last. 

Having  a  charm  to  baffle  them  ;  behold, 

He  bares  his  front :  a  mortal  ventures  thus 

Serene  amid  the  echoes,  beams  and  glooms ! 

If  he  be  priest  henceforth,  if  he  wake  up 

The  god  of  the  place  to  ban  and  blast  him  there, 

Both  well !     What 's  failure  or  success  to  me  ? 

I  have  subdued  my  life  to  the  one  jDurpose 

Whereto  I  ordained  it ;  there  alone  I  spy, 

No  doubt,  that  way  I  may  be  satisfied. 

Yes,  well  have  I  subdued  my  life  !  beyond 

Tlie  obligation  of  my  strictest  vow, 

The  contemplation  of  my  wildest  bond, 

Which  gave  my  nature  freely  up,  in  truth. 

But  in  its  actual  state,  consenting  fully 

All  j)assionate  impulses  its  soil  was  formed 

To  rear,  should  wither  ;  but  foreseeing  not 

The  tract,  doomed  to  perj)etual  barrenness, 

AVould  seem  one  day,  remembered  as  it  was, 

Beside  the  parched  sand-waste  which  now  it  is, 

Already  strewn  with  faint  blooms,  viewless  then. 


PARACELSUS  49 

I  ne'er  engaged  to  root  up  loves  so  frail 
I  felt  them  not ;  yet  now,  't  is  very  plain 
Some  soft  S2)ots  had  their  birth  in  me  at  first, 
If  not  love,  say,  like  love  :   there  was  a  time 
When  yet  this  wollish  hunger  after  knowledge 
Set  not  remorselessly  love's  claims  aside. 
This  heart  was  human  once,  or  why  recall 
Einsiedehi,  now,  and  Wiirzburg  which  the  Main 
Forsakes  her  course  to  fold  as  witli  an  arm  ? 

And  Festus  —  my  poor  Festus,  with  his  praise 

And  counsel  and  grave  fears  —  where  is  he  now 

With  the  sweet  maiden,  long  ago  his  bride  ? 

I  surely  loved  them  —  that  last  night,  at  least. 

When  we  .  .  .  gone !  gone !  the  better.     I  am  saved 

The  sad  review  of  an  ambitious  youth 

Choked  by  vile  lusts,  unnoticed  in  their  birth, 

But  let  grow  up  and  wind  around  a  will 

Till  action  was  destroyed.     No,  I  have  gone 

Purging  my  path  successively  of  aught 

Wearing  the  distant  likeness  of  such  lusts. 

I  have  made  life  consist  of  one  idea : 

Ere  that  was  master,  up  till  that  was  born, 

I  bear  a  memory  of  a,  pleasant  life 

Whose  small  events  1  treasure ;  till  one  morn 

I  ran  o'er  the  seven  little  grassy  fields. 

Startling  the  flocks  of  nameless  birds,  to  tell 

Poor  Festus,  leaping  all  the  while  for  joy, 

To  leave  all  trouble  for  my  future  plans, 

Since  I  had  just  determined  to  become 

The  greatest  and  most  glorious  man  on  earth. 

And  since  that  morn  all  life  has  been  forgotten  ; 

All  is  one  day,  one  only  step  between 

The  outset  and  the  end  :  one  tyrant  all- 

Absorbing  aim  fills  up  the  interspace, 

One  vast  unbroken  chain  of  thought,  kept  up 

Through  a  career  apparently  adverse 

To  its  existence  :  life,  death,  light  and  shadow, 

The  shows  of  the  world,  were  bare  receptacles 

Or  indices  of  truth  to  be  wrung  thence, 

Not  ministers  of  sorrow  or  delight : 

A  wondrous  natural  robe  in  which  she  went. 

For  some  one  truth  would  dimly  beacon  me 

From  mountains  rough  with  pines,  and  flit  and  wink 

O'er  dazzling  wastes  of  frozen  snow,  and  tremble 

Into  assured  light  in  some  branching  mine 


50  PARACELSUS 

Where  ripens,  swathed  in  fire,  the  liquid  gold  — 
And  all  the  beauty,  all  the  wonder  fell 
On  either  side  the  truth,  as  its  mere  robe  ; 
I  see  the  robe  now  —  then  I  saw  the  form. 
So  far,  then,  I  have  voyaged  with  success, 
So  much  is  good,  then,  in  this  working  sea 
Which  parts  me  from  that  happy  strip  of  land  : 
But  o'er  that  happy  strip  a  sun  shone,  too ! 
And  fainter  gleams  it  as  the  waves  grow  rough, 
And  still  more  faint  as  the  sea  widens  ;  last 
I  sicken  on  a  dead  gulf  streaked  with  light 
From  its  own  putrefying  depths  alone. 
Then,  God  was  pledged  to  take  me  by  the  hand  ; 
Now,  any  miserable  juggle  can  bid 
My  pride  depart.     All  is  alike  at  length  : 
God  may  take  pleasure  in  confounding  pride 
By  hiding  secrets  with  the  scorned  and  base  — 
I  am  here,  in  short :  so  little  have  I  paused 
Throughout !     I  never  glanced  behind  to  know 
If  I  had  kept  my  primal  light  from  wane, 
And  thus  insensibly  am  —  what  I  am  ! 

Oh,  bitter  ;  very  bitter  ! 

And  more  bitter, 
To  fear  a  deeper  curse,  an  inner  ruin, 
Plague  beneath  plague,  the  last  turning  the  first 
To  light  beside  its  darkness.     Let  me  weep 
My  youth  and  its  brave  hopes,  all  dead  and  gone, 
In  tears  which  burn  !     Would  I  were  sure  to  win 
Some  startling  secret  in  their  stead,  a  tincture 
Of  force  to  flush  old  age  with  youth,  or  breed 
Gold,  or  imprison  moonbeams  till  they  change 
To  opal  shafts  !  —  only  that,  hurling  it 
Indignant  back,  I  might  convince  myself 
My  aims  remained  supreme  and  i)ure  as  ever  ! 
Even  now,  why  not  desire,  for  mankind's  sake, 
That  if  I  fail,  some  fault  may  be  the  cause, 
That,  though  I  sink,  another  may  succeed  ? 
O  God,  the  despicable  heart  of  us ! 
Shut  out  this  hideous  mockery  from  my  heart ! 

'T  was  politic  in  you.  Aureole,  to  reject 
Single  rewards,  and  ask  them  in  the  lumj)  ; 
At  all  events,  once  launched,  to  hold  straight  on  : 
For  now  't  is  all  or  nothing.     Mighty  profit 
Your  gains  will  bring  if  they  stoj)  short  of  such 


PARACELSUS  51 

Full  consummation  !     As  a  man,  you  had 
A  certain  share  of  strength  ;  and  that  is  gone 
Already  in  the  getting  these  you  boast. 
Do  not  they  seem  to  laugh,  as  who  should  say  — 
"  Great  master,  we  are  here  indeed,  dragged  forth 
To  light ;  this  hast  thou  done :  be  glad  !     Now,  seek 
The  strength  to  use  which  thou  hast  spent  in  getting !  " 

And  yet  't  is  much,  surely  't  is  very  much, 
Thus  to  have  emptied  youth  of  all  its  gifts. 
To  feed  a  fire  meant  to  hold  out  till  morn 
Arrived  with  inexhaustible  light ;  and  lo, 
1  have  heajjed  up  my  last,  and  day  dawns  not ! 
And  I  am  left  with  gray  hair,  faded  hands. 
And  furrowed  brow.     Ha,  have  I,  after  all, 
Mistaken  the  wild  nursling  of  my  breast  ? 
Knowledge  it  seemed,  and  power,  and  recompense ! 
Was  she  who  glided  through  my  room  of  nights, 
Who  laid  my  head  on  her  soft  knees  and  smoothed 
The  damp  locks,  —  whose  sly  soothings  just  began 
When  my  sick  spirit  craved  repose  awhile  — 
God  !   was  I  fighting  sleep  off  for  death's  sake  ? 

God !     Thou  art  mind  !     Unto  the  master-mind 

Mind  should  be  precious.     SjDare  my  mind  alone ! 

All  else  I  will  endure  ;  if,  as  I  stand 

Here,  with  my  gains,  thy  thunder  smite  me  down, 

I  bow  me  ;  't  is  thy  will,  thy  righteous  will ; 

I  o'erpass  life's  restrictions,  and  I  die  ; 

And  if  no  trace  of  my  career  remain 

Save  a  thin  corpse  at  jaleasure  of  the  wind 

In  these  bright  chambers  level  with  the  air, 

See  thou  to  it !     But  if  my  spirit  fail. 

My  once  proud  spirit  forsake  me  at  the  last, 

Hast  thou  done  well  by  me  ?     So  do  not  thou ! 

Crush  not  my  mind,  dear  God,  though  I  be  crushed  ! 

Hold  me  before  the  frequence  of  thy  seraphs 

And  say  —  "I  crushed  him,  lest  he  should  disturb 

My  law.     Men  must  not  know  their  strength  :  behold, 

Weak  and  alone,  how  he  had  raised  himself  !  " 

But  if  delusions  trouble  me,  and  thou. 
Not  seldom  felt  with  rapture  in  thy  help 
Throughout  my  toils  and  wanderings,  dost  intend 
To  work  man's  welfare  through  my  weak  endeavor, 
To  crown  my  mortal  forehead  with  a  beam 


62  PARACELSUS 

From  thine  own  blinding  crown,  to  smile,  and  guide 

This  puny  hand  and  let  the  work  so  wrought 

Be  styled  my  work,  —  hear  me  !     I  covet  not 

An  influx  of  new  power,  an  angel's  soul : 

It  were  no  marvel  then  —  but  1  have  reached 

Thus  far,  a  man  ;  let  me  conclude,  a  man  ! 

Give  but  one  hour  of  my  first  energy, 

Of  that  invincible  faith,  but  only  one  ! 

That  I  may  cover  with  an  eagle-glance 

The  truths  I  have,  and  spy  some  certain  way 

To  mould  them,  and  completing  them,  possess ! 

Yet  God  is  good :  I  started  sure  of  that. 

And  why  dispute  it  now  ?     I  '11  not  believe 

But  some  undoubted  warning  long  ere  this 

Had  reached  me  :  a  fire-labarum  was  not  deemed 

Too  much  for  the  old  founder  of  these  walls. 

Then,  if  my  life  has  not  been  natural. 

It  has  been  monstrous  :  yet,  till  late,  my  course 

So  ardently  engrossed  me,  that  delight, 

A  pausing  and  reflecting  joy,  't  is  plain, 

Could  find  no  place  in  it.     True,  I  am  worn ; 

But  who  clothes  summer,  who  is  life  itself  ? 

God,  that  created  all  things,  can  renew  ! 

And  then,  though  after-life  to  please  me  now 

Must  have  no  likeness  to  the  past,  what  hinders 

Reward  from  springing  out  of  toil,  as  changed 

As  bursts  the  flower  from  earth  and  root  and  stalk  ? 

What  use  were  punishment,  unless  some  sin 

Be  first  detected  ?  let  me  know  that  first ! 

No  man  could  ever  offend  as  I  have  done  .  .  . 

(^4  voice  from  within.) 

I  hear  a  voice,  perchance  I  heard 

Long  ago,  but  all  too  low, 

So  that  scarce  a  care  it  stirred 

If  the  voice  were  real  or  no  : 

I  heard  it  in  my  youth  when  first 

The  waters  of  my  life  outburst : 

But,  now  their  stream  ebbs  faint,  I  hear 

That  voice,  still  low,  but  fatal-clear  — 

As  if  all  poets,  God  ever  meant 

Should  save  the  world,  and  therefore  lent 

Great  gifts  to,  but  who,  proud,  refused  ■ 

To  do  his  work,  or  lightly  used 

Those  gifts,  or  failed  through  weak  endeavor, 


J 


PARACELSUS  63 

So,  mourn  cast  off  by  him  forever,  — 

As  if  these  leaned  in  airy  ring 

To  take  me ;  this  the  song  they  sing. 

*'  Lost,  lost !  yet  come, 
With  our  wan  troop  make  thy  home. 
Come,  come !  for  we 
Will  not  breathe,  so  much  as  breathe 
Reproach  to  thee. 

Knowing  what  thou  sink'st  beneath. 
So  sank  we  in  those  old  years. 
We  who  bid  thee,  come  !  thou  last 
Who,  living  yet,  hast  life  o'erpast. 
And  altogether  we,  thy  peers. 
Will  pardon  ask  for  thee,  the  last 
Whose  trial  is  done,  whose  lot  is  cast 
With  those  who  watch  but  work  no  more, 
Who  gaze  on  life  but  live  no  more. 
Yet  we  trusted  thou  shouldst  speak 
The  message  which  our  lips,  too  weak, 
Refused  to  utter,  —  shouldst  redeem 
Our  fault :  such  trust,  and  all  a  dream  ! 
Yet  we  chose  thee  a  birthplace 
Where  the  richness  ran  to  flowers  : 
Couldst  not  sing  one  song  for  grace  ? 
Not  make  one  blossom  man's  and  ours  ? 
Must  one  more  recreant  to  his  race 
Die  with  un exerted  powers, 
And  join  us,  leaving  as  he  found 
The  world,  he  was  to  loosen,  bound  ? 
Anguish  !   ever  and  forever  ; 
Still  beginning,  ending  never  ! 
Yet,  lost  and  last  one,  come ! 
How  couldst  understand,  alas. 
What  our  pale  ghosts  strove  to  say. 
As  their  shades  did  glance  and  pass 
Before  thee  night  and  day  ? 
Thou  wast  blind  as  we  were  dumb  : 
Once  more,  therefore,  come,  O  come  ! 
How  shall  we  clothe,  how  arm  the  spirit 
Shall  next  thy  })ost  of  life  inherit  — 
How  guard  him  from  thy  speedy  ruin  ? 
Tell  us  of  thy  sad  undoing 
Here,  wliere  we  sit,  ever  pursuing 
Our  weary  task,  ever  renewing 
Sharp  sorrow,  far  from  God  who  gave 
Our  powers,  and  man  they  could  not  save  I  " 


64 


PARACELSUS 


A 


(A^ 


(Aprile  enters.) 

Ha,  ha !  our  king  that  wouldst  be,  here  at  last  ? 
Art  thou  the  poet  who  shall  save  the  world  ? 
Thy  hand  to  mine  !     Stay,  fix  thine  eyes  on  mine  ! 
Thou  wouldst  be  king  ?     Still  fix  thine  eyes  on  mine ! 

"]P«r.  Ha,  ha  I   why  crouehest  not  ?     Am  I  not  king  ? 
So  torture  is  not  wholly  una-vailing  I 
Have  my  fierce  spasms  compelled  thee  from  thy  lair  ? 
Art  thou  the  sage  I  only  seemed  to  be, 
Myself  of  after- time,  my  very  self 
With  sight  a  little  clearer,  strength  more  firm, 
Who  robes  him  in  my  robe  and  grasps  my  crown 
For  just  a  fault,  a  weakness,  a  neglect  ? 
I  scarcely  trusted  God  with  the  surmise 
That  such  might  come,  and  thou  didst  hear  the  while ! 

Apr.  Thine  eyes  are  lustreless  to  mine  ;  my  hair 
Is  soft,  nay  silken  soft :  to  talk  with  thee 
Flushes  my  cheek,  and  thou  art  ashy-i)ale. 
Truly,  thou  hast  labored,  hast  withstood  her  lips, 
The  siren's  !     Yes,  't  is  like  thou  hast  attained  ! 
Tell  me,  dear  master,  wherefore  now  thou  comest  ? 
I  thought  thy  solemn  songs  would  have  their  meed 
In  after-time  ;  that  I  should  hear  the  earth 
Exult  in  thee  and  echo  with  thy  praise. 
While  I  was  laid  forgotten  in  my  grave. 

JPar.  Ah  fiend,  I  know  thee,  I  am  not  thy  dupe ! 
Thou  art  ordained  to  follow  in  my  track, 
Reaping  my  sowing,  as  I  scorned  to  reap 
The  harvest  sown  by  sages  passed  away. 
Thou  art  the  sober  searcher,  cautious  striver, 
As  if,  except  through  me,  thou  hast  searched  or  striven ! 
Ay,  tell  the  world  !     Degrade  me,  after  all, 
To  an  aspirant  after  fame,  not  truth  — 
To  all  but  envy  of  thy  fate,  be  sine ! 

ApVo  Nay,  sing  them  to  me  ;  I  shall  envy  not : 
Thou  shalt  be  king !     Sing  thou,  and  I  will  sit 
Beside,  and  call  deep  silence  for  thy  songs. 
And  worship  thee,  as  I  had  ne'er  been  meant 
To  fill  thy  throne  :  but  none  shall  ever  know ! 
Sing  to  me ;  for  already  thy  wild  eyes 
Unlock  my  heart-strings,  as  some  crystal-shaft 
Reveals  by  some  chance  blaze  its  ])arent  fount 
After  long  time  :  so  thou  reveal'st  my  soul. 
All  will  flash  forth  at  last,  with  thee  to  hear ! 

P(n\   (His  secret!     I  sliall  get  his  secret  —  fool !) 
I  am  he  that  aspired  to  know  :  and  thou  ? 


PARACELSUS  55 

Apr.  I  would  LOVE  infinitely,  and  be  loved  ! 

Par.  Poor  slave  !     I  am  thy  king  indeed. 

Apr.  Thou  deem'st 

That  —  born  a  spirit,  dowered  even  as  thou. 
Born  for  thy  fate  —  because  I  could  not  curb 
My  yearnings  to  possess  at  once  the  full 
Enjoyment,  but  neglected  all  the  means 
Of  realizing  even  the  frailest  joy, 
Gathering  no  fragments  to  appease  my  want, 
Yet  nursing  up  that  want  till  thus  I  die  — 
Thou  deem'st  I  cannot  trace  thy  safe  sure  march 
O'er  perils  that  o'erwhelm  me,  triumphing, 
Neglecting  nought  below  for  aught  above, 
Despising  nothing  and  ensuring  all  — 
Nor  that  I  could  (my  time  to  come  again) 
Lead  thus  my  spirit  securely  as  thine  own. 
Listen,  and  thou  shalt  see  I  know  thee  well. 
I  would  love  infinitely  .  .  .  Ah,  lost !  lost ! 
Oh  ye  who  armed  me  at  such  cost. 
How  shall  I  look  on  all  of  ye 
With  your  gifts  even  yet  on  me  ? 

Par.   (Ah,  'tis  some  moonstruck  creature  after  all! 
Such  fond  fools  as  are  like  to  haunt  this  den  : 
They  spread  contagion,  doubtless  :  yet  he  seemed 
To  echo  one  foreboding  of  my  heart 
So  truly,  that  ...  no  matter  !     How  he  stands 
With  eve's  last  sunbeam  staying  on  his  hair 
Which  turns  to  it  as  if  they  were  akin  : 
And  those  clear  smiling  eyes  of  saddest  blue 
Nearly  set  free,  so  far  they  rise  above 
The  painful  fruitless  striving  of  the  brow 
And  enforced  knowledge  of  the  lips,  lirm-set 
In  slow  despondency's  eternal  sigh  ! 
Has  he,  too,  missed  life's  end,  and  learned  the  cause  ?) 
I  charge  thee,  by  thy  fealty,  be  calm  ! 
Tell  me  what  thou  wouldst  be,  and  what  I  am. 

Apr.  I  would  love  infinitely,  and  be  loved. 
First :  I  would  carve  in  stone,  or  cast  in  brass. 
The  forms  of  earth.     No  ancient  hunter  lifted 
Up  to  the  gods  by  his  renown,  no  nymph 
Sui)posed  the  sweet  soul  of  a  woodland  tree 
Or  sapphirine  spirit  of  a  twilight  star. 
Should  be  too  hard  for  me  ;  no  shepherd-king 
Regal  for  his  white  locks ;  no  youth  who  stands 
Silent  and  very  calm  amid  the  throng, 
His  right  hand  ever  hid  beneath  his  robe 


56  PARACELSUS 

Until  the  tyrant  pass  ;  no  lawgiver, 

No  swan-soft  woman  rubbed  with  lucid  oils 

Given  by  a  god  for  love  of  her  —  too  hard  ! 

Every  passion  sprung  from  man,  conceived  by  man, 

Would  I  express  and  clothe  it  in  its  right  form, 

Or  blend  with  otliers  struggling  in  one  form, 

Or  show  repressed  by  an  ungainly  form. 

Oh,  if  you  marvelled  at  some  mighty  spirit 

With  a  fit  frame  to  execute  its  will  — 

Even  unconsciously  to  work  its  will  — 

You  should  be  moved  no  less  beside  some  strong 

Rare  spirit,  fettered  to  a  stubborn  body. 

Endeavoring  to  subdue  it  and  inform  it 

With  its  own  splendor !     All  this  I  would  do  : 

And  I  would  say,  this  done,  "  His  sprites  created, 

God  grants  to  each  a  sphere  to  be  its  world. 

Appointed  with  the  various  objects  needed 

To  satisfy  its  own  peculiar  want ; 

So,  I  create  a  world  for  tliese  my  shapes 

Fit  to  sustain  their  beauty  and  their  strength  !  " 

And,  at  the  word,  I  woidd  contrive  and  paint 

Woods,  valleys,  rocks  and  plains,  dells,  sands  and  wastes. 

Lakes  which,  when  morn  breaks  on  their  quivering  bed. 

Blaze  like  a  wyvern  flying  round  the  sun. 

And  ocean-isles  so  small,  the  dog-fish  tracking 

A  dead  whale,  who  should  find  them,  would  swim  thrice 

Around  them,  and  fare  onward  —  all  to  hold 

The  offspring  of  my  brain.     Nor  these  alone  : 

Bronze  labyrinth,  palace,  pyramid  and  crypt. 

Baths,  galleries,  courts,  temples  and  terraces. 

Marts,  theatres  and  wharfs  —  all  filled  with  men, 

Men  everywhere  !     And  this  performed  in  turn. 

When  those  who  looked  on,  pined  to  hear  the  hopes 

And  fears  and  hates  and  loves  which  moved  the  crowd, 

I  would  throw  down  the  ])encil  as  the  chisel, 

And  I  would  speak  ;  no  thought  which  ever  stirred 

A  human  breast  should  be  untold  ;  all  passions. 

All  soft  emotions,  from  the  turbulent  stir 

Within  a  heart  fed  with  desires  like  mine, 

To  the  last  comfort  shutting  the  tired  lids 

Of  him  who  sleeps  the  sultry  noon  away 

Beneath  the  tent-tree  by  the  wayside  well : 

And  this  in  language  as  the  need  should  be, 

Now  poured  at  once  forth  in  a  burning  flow, 

Now  piled  up  in  a  grand  array  of  words. 

This  done,  to  perfect  and  consunnnate  all, 

1 


PARACELSUS  67 

Even  as  a  luminous  haze  links  star  to  star, 

I  would  supply  all  chasms  with  music,  breathing 

Mysterious  motions  of  the  soul,  no  way 

To  be  defined  save  in  strange  melodies. 

Last,  having  thus  revealed  all  I  could  love, 

Having  received  all  love  bestowed  on  it, 

I  would  die  :   preserving  so  throughout  my  course 

God  full  on  me,  as  I  was  full  on  men  : 

He  would  approve  my  prayer,  "  I  have  gone  through 

The  loveliness  of  life  ;  create  for  me 

If  not  for  men,  or  take  me  to  thyself. 

Eternal,  infinite  love  !  " 

If  thou  hast  ne'er 
Conceived  this  mighty  aim,  this  full  desire. 
Thou  hast  not  passed  my  trial,  and  thou  art 
No  king  of  mine. 

Par.  Ah  me ! 

Apr.  But  thou  art  here  ! 

Thou  didst  not  gaze  like  me  upon  that  end 
Till  thine  own  powers  for  compassing  the  bliss 
Were  blind  with  glory ;  nor  grow  mad  to  grasp 
At  once  the  prize  long  patient  toil  should  claim, 
Nor  spurn  all  granted  short  of  that.     And  I 
Would  do  as  thou,  a  second  time  :  nay,  listen  ! 
Knowing  ourselves,  our  world,  our  task  so  great, 
Our  time  so  brief,  't  is  clear  if  we  refuse 
The  means  so  limited,  the  tools  so  rude 
To  execute  our  purpose,  life  will  fleet. 
And  we  shall  fade,  and  leave  our  task  undone. 
We  will  be  wise  in  time  :  what  though  our  work 
Be  fashioned  in  despite  of  their  ill-service. 
Be  crippled  every  way  ?     'T  were  little  praise 
Did  full  resources  wait  on  our  goodwill 
At  every  turn.     Let  all  be  as  it  is. 
Some  say  the  earth  is  even  so  contrived 
That  tree  and  flower,  a  vesture  gay,  conceal 
A  bare  and  skeleton  framework.     Had  we  means 
Answering  to  our  mind  I      But  now  I  seem 
Wrecked  on  a  savage  isle  :  how  rear  thereon 
My  palace  ?     Branching  palms  the  props  shall  be, 
Fruit  glossy  mingling  ;  gems  are  for  the  East ; 
Who  heeds  them  ?     I  can  pass  them.     vSerpents'  scales, 
And  painted  birds'  down,  furs  and  fishes'  skins 
Must  help  me ;  and  a  little  here  and  there 
Is  all  I  can  aspire  to  :   still  my  art 
Shall  show  its  birth  was  in  a  gentler  clime. 


68  PARACELSUS 

"  Had  I  green  jars  of  malachite,  this  way 
I  'd  range  them  :  where  those  sea-shells  glisten  above, 
Cressets  should  hang,  by  right :  this  way  we  set 
The  pm'ple  carpets,  as  these  mats  are  laid, 
Woven  of  fern  and  rush  and  blossomino-  flao-." 
Or  if,  by  fortune,  some  completer  grace 
Be  spared  to  me,  some  fragment,  some  slight  sample 
Of  the  prouder  workmansliip  my  own  home  boasts, 
Some  trifle  little  heeded  there,  but  here 
The  place's  one  perfection  —  with  what  joy 
"Would  I  enshrine  the  relic,  cheerfully 
Foregoing  all  the  marvels  out  of  reach  ! 
Could  I  retain  one  strain  of  all  the  psalm 
Of  the  angels,  one  word  of  the  fiat  of  God, 
To  let  my  followers  know  what  such  things  are  ! 
I  would  adventure  nobly  for  their  sakes : 
When  nights  were  still,  and  still  the  moaning  sea. 
And  far  away  I  could  descry  the  land 
Whence  I  departed,  whither  I  return, 
I  would  dispart  the  waves,  and  stand  once  more 
At  home,  and  load  my  bark,  and  hasten  back. 
And  fling  my  gains  to  them,  worthless  or  true. 

"  Friends,"  I  would  say,  "  I  went  far,  far  for  them, 
Past  the  high  rocks  the  haunt  of  doves,  the  mounds 
Of  red  earth  from  whose  sides  strange  trees  grow  out, 
Past  tracts  of  milk-white  minute  blinding  sand. 
Till,  by  a  mighty  moon,  I  tremblingly 
Gathered  these  magic  herbs,  berry  and  bud, 
In  haste,  not  pausing  to  reject  the  weeds. 
But  ha})py  plucking  them  at  any  price. 
To  me,  wlio  have  seen  them  bloom  in  their  own  soil, 
They  are  scarce  lovely :  plait  and  wear  them,  you  ! 
And  guess,  from  what  they  are,  the  springs  that  fed  them, 
Tlie  stars  that  sparkled  o'er  them,  niglit  by  night, 
The  snakes  that  travelled  far  to  sip  their  dew  !  " 
Thus  for  my  higher  loves ;  and  thus  even  weakness 
Would  win  me  honor.     But  not  these  alone 
Should  claim  my  care  ;  for  common  life,  its  wants 
And  ways,  would  I  set  forth  in  beauteous  hues  : 
The  lowest  hind  should  not  possess  a  hope, 
A  fear,  but  I  'd  be  by  him,  saying  better 
Than  he  his  own  heart's  language.     I  would  live 
Forever  in  the  thoughts  I  thus  explored. 
As  a  discoverer's  memory  is  attached 
To  all  he  finds ;  they  should  be  mine  henceforth. 
Imbued  with  me,  though  free  to  all  before  : 


i 

1 


PARACELSUS  59 

For  clay,  once  cast  into  my  soul's  rich  mine. 

Should  come  up  crusted  o'er  with  gems.     Nor  this 

Would  need  a  meaner  spirit  than  the  first ; 

Nay,  't  would  be  but  the  selfsame  spirit,  clothed 

In  humbler  guise,  but  still  the  selfsame  spirit : 

As  one  spring  wind  unbinds  the  mountain  snow 

And  comforts  violets  in  their  hermitasfe. 

But,  master,  poet,  who  hast  done  all  this, 

How  didst  thou  'scape  the  ruin  whelniing  me  ? 

Didst  thou,  when  nerving  thee  to  this  attempt. 

Ne'er  range  thy  mind's  extent,  as  some  wide  hall, 

Dazzled  by  shapes  that  filled  its  length  with  light, 

Shapes  clustered  there  to  rule  thee,  not  obey, 

That  will  not  wait  thy  summons,  will  not  rise 

Singly,  nor  when  tliy  practised  eye  and  hand 

Can  well  transfer  their  loveliness,  but  crowd 

By  thee  forever,  bright  to  thy  despair  ? 

Didst  thou  ne'er  gaze'  on  each  by  turns,  and  ne'er 

Resolve  to  single  out  one,  though  the  rest 

Should  vanish,  and  to  give  that  one,  entire 

In  beauty,  to  the  world  ;   forgetting,  so, 

Its  peers,  whose  number  baffles  mortal  power  ? 

And,  this  determined,  wast  thou  ne'er  seduced 

By  memories  and  regrets  and  passionate  love, 

To  glance  once  more  farewell  ?  and  did  their  eyes 

Fasten  thee,  brighter  and  more  bright,  until 

Thou  couldst  but  stagger  back  unto  their  feet, 

And  laugh  that  man's  applause  or  welfare  ever 

Could  tempt  thee  to  forsake  them  ?     Or  when  years 

Had  passed  and  still  their  love  possessed  thee  wholly, 

When  from  without  some  murmur  startled  thee 

Of  darkling  mortals  famished  for  one  ray 

Of  thy  so-hoarded  luxury  of  light, 

Didst  thou  ne'er  strive  even  yet  to  break  those  spells 

And  prove  thou  couldst  recover  and  fulfil 

Thy  early  mission,  long  ago  renounced, 

And  to  that  end,  select  some  shape  once  more  ? 

And  did  not  mist-like  influences,  thick  films. 

Faint  memories  of  the  rest  that  charmed  so  long 

Thine  eyes,  float  fast,  confuse  thee,  bear  thee  off, 

As  whirling  snow-drifts  blind  a  man  who  treads 

A  mountain  ridge,  with  guiding  spear,  through  storm  ? 

Say,  though  I  fell,  I  had  excuse  to  fall  ; 

Say,  I  was  tempted  sorely :  say  but  this, 

Dear  lord,  Aprile's  lord  ! 

Par.  Clasp  me  not  thus, 


60  PARACELSUS 

Aprile !     That  the  truth  should  reach  me  thus  ! 
We  are  weak  dust.     Nay,  clasp  not  or  I  faint  ! 

Apr.    My   king !    and    envious    thoughts    could    outrage 
thee? 
Lo,  I  forget  my  ruin,  and  rejoice 
In  thy  success,  as  thou !     Let  our  God's  praise 
Go  bravely  through  the  world  at  last !      What  care 
Through  me  or  thee  ?     I  feel  thy  breath.     Why,  tears  ? 
Tears  in  the  darkness,  and  from  thee  to  me  ? 

Par.  Love  me  henceforth,  Aprile,  while  I  learn 
To  love  ;  and,  merciful  God,  forgive  us  both  I 
We  wake  at  length  from  weary  dreams ;  but  both 
Have  slept  in  fairy-land  :  though  dark  and  drear 
Appears  the  world  before  us,  we  no  less 
Wake  with  our  wrists  and  ankles  jewelled  still. 
I  too  have  souo-ht  to  know  as  thou  to  love  — 
Excluding  love  as  thou  refusedst  knowledge. 
Still  thou  hast  beauty,  and  I,  power.     We  wake : 
What  penance  canst  devise  for  both  of  us  ? 

Ajyr.  I  hear  thee  faintly.     The  thick  darkness  !     Even 
Thine  eyes  are  hid.     'T  is  as  I  knew  :  I  speak, 
And  now  I  die.     But  I  have  seen  thy  face  ! 

0  poet,  think  of  me,  and  sing  of  me  ! 
But  to  have  seen  thee  and  to  die  so  soon  ! 

Par.  Die  not,  Aprile  !     We  must  never  part. 
Are  we  not  halves  of  one  dissevered  world, 
Whom    this    strange    chance    unites    once    more  ?     Part  ? 

never  ! 
Till  thou  the  lover,  know  ;  and  I,  the  knower. 
Love  —  until  both  are  saved.     Ajn^ile,  hear  ! 
We  will  accept  our  gains,  and  use  them  -^  now ! 
God,  he  will  die  upon  my  breast !      Aprile  ! 

Apr.  To  speak  but  once,  and  die  I  yet  by  his  side. 
Hush !  hush  ! 

Ha !  go  you  ever  girt  about 
With  phantoms,  powers  ?     I  have  created  such, 
But  these  seem  real  as  I. 

Par.  Whom  can  you  see 

Through  the  accursed  darkness  ? 

Apr.  Stay  ;  T  know, 

1  know  them  :   who  should  know  them  well  as  I  ? 
White  brows,  lit  up  with  glory  ;  poets  all ! 

Par,  Let  him  but  live,  and  I  have  my  reward ! 

Apr.  Yes  ;  I  see  now.     God  is  the  perfect  poet, 
Who  in  his  person  acts  his  own  creations. 
Had  you  but  told  me  this  at  first !     Hush  !  hush  ! 


PARACELSUS  61 

Pa7\  Live  !  for  my  sake,  because  of  my  great  sin, 
To  help  my  brain,  oppressed  by  these  wild  words 
And  their  deep  import.     Live !  't  is  not  too  late. 
I  have  a  quiet  home  for  us,  and  friends. 
Miclial  shall  smile  on  you.     Hear  you  ?     Lean  thus, 
And  breathe  my  breath.     I  shall  not  lose  one  word 
Of  all  your  speech,  one  little  word,  Aprile ! 

Ap7\  No,  no.     Crown  me  ?     I  am  not  one  of  you ! 
'Tis  he,  the  king,  you  seek.     I  am  not  one. 

Par.  Thy  spirit,  at  least,  Aprile !     Let  me  love. 

I  have  attained,  and  now  I  may  depart. 


HI.    PARACELSUS. 

Scene,  Basel ;  a  chamber  in  the  house  of  Paracelsus.     1526. 

Paracelsus,  Festus. 

Par.  Heap  logs  and  let  the  blaze  laugh  out ! 

Fest.  True,  true  ! 

'T  is  very  fit  all,  time  and  chance  and  change 
Have  wrought  since  last  we  sat  thus,  face  to  face 
And  soul  to  soul  —  all  cares,  far-looking  fears. 
Vague  apprehensions,  all  vain  fancies  bred 
By  your  long  absence,  should  be  cast  away, 
Forgotten  in  this  glad  unhoped  renewal 
Of  our  affections. 

Par.  Oh,  omit  not  aught 

Which  witnesses  your  own  and  Michal's  own 
Affection  :  spare  not  that !     Only  forget 
The  honors  and  the  glories  and  what  not, 
It  pleases  you  to  tell  profusely  out. 

Fest.  Nay,  even  your  honors,  in  a  sense,  I  waive  : 
The  wondrous  Paracelsus,  life's  dispenser, 
Fate's  commissary,  idol  of  the  schools 
And  courts,  shall  be  no  more  than  Aureole  still, 
Still  Aureole  and  my  friend  as  when  we  parted 
Some  twenty  years  ago,  and  I  restrained 
As  best  I  conkl  the  promptings  of  my  spirit 
Wliich  secretly  advanced  you,  from  the  first, 
To  the  pre-eminent  rank  which,  since,  your  own 
Adventurous  ardor,  nobly  triumphing. 
Has  won  for  you. 

Par.  Yes,  yes.     And  Michal's  face 

Still  wears  that  quiet  and  peculiar  light 
Like  the  dim  circlet  floating  round  a  pearl  ? 


62  PARACELSUS 

Fest.  Just  so. 

Par.  And  yet  her  calm  sweet  countenance, 

Though  saintly,  was  not  sad  ;  for  she  would  sing 
Alone.     Does  she  still  sing  alone,  bird-like, 
Not  dreaming  you  are  near  ?     Her  carols  dro[)t 
In  flakes  through  that  old  leafy  bower  built  under 
The  sunny  wall  at  Wurzburg,  from  her  lattice 
Among  the  trees  above,  while  I,  unseen, 
Sat  conning  some  rare  scroll  from  Tritheim's  shelves, 
Much  wondering  notes  so  simple  could  divert 
My  mind  from  study.     Those  were  happy  days. 
Respect  all  such  as  sing  when  all  alone  I 

Fest.  Scarcely  alone  :  her  children,  you  may  guess, 
Are  wild  beside  her. 

Par.  Ah,  those  children  quite 

Unsettle  the  pure  picture  in  my  mind  : 
A  girl,  she  was  so  perfect,  so  distinct. 
No  change,  no  change !     Not  but  this  added  grace 
May  blend  and  harmonize  w^ith  its  compeers, 
And  Michal  may  become  her  motherhood  ; 
But  't  is  a  change,  and  I  detest  all  change. 
And  most  a  change  in  aught  I  loved  long  since. 
So,  Michal  —  you  have  said  she  thinks  of  me  ? 

Fest.  O  very  proud  will  Michal  be  of  you ! 
Imagine  how  we  sat,  long  winter-nights. 
Scheming  and  wondering,  shaping  your  presumed 
Adventure,  or  devising  its  reward ; 
Shutting  out  fear  with  all  the  strength  of  hope. 
For  it  was  strange  how,  even  when  most  secure 
In  our  domestic  peace,  a  certain  dim 
And  flitting  shade  could  sadden  all ;  it  seemed 
A  restlessness  of  heart,  a  silent  yearning, 
A  sense  of  something  wanting,  incomplete  — 
Not  to  be  put  in  words,  perhaps  avoided 
By  mute  consent  —  but,  said  or  unsaid,  felt 
To  point  to  one  so  loved  and  so  long  lost. 
And  then  the  hopes  rose  and  shut  out  the  fears  — 
How  you  would  laugh  should  I  recount  them  now  ! 
I  still  })redicted  your  return  at  last 
With  gifts  beyond  the  greatest  of  them  all. 
All  Tritheim's  wondrous  troop  ;  did  one  of  which 
Attain  renown  by  any  chance,  I  smiled. 
As  well  aware  of  who  would  prove  his  peer. 
IVIichal  was  sure  some  woman,  long  ere  this, 
As  beautiful  as  you  were  sage,  had  loved  .   .   . 

Par.  Far-seeing,  truly,  to  discern  so  nmch 


PARACELSUS  63 

In  the  fantastic  projects  and  day-dreams 
Of  a  raw  restless  boy ! 

Fest.  Oh,  no  :   the  sunrise 

Well  warranted  our  faith  in  this  full  noon  ! 
Can  I  forget  the  anxious  voice  which  said, 
"•  Festus,  have  thoughts  like  these  e'er  shaped  themselves 
In  other  brains  than  mine  ?  have  their  possessors 
Existed  in  like  circumstance  ?  were  they  weak 
As  I,  or  ever  constant  from  the  iirst, 
Despising  youth's  allurements  and  rejecting 
As  spider-lilms  the  shackles  I  endure  ? 
Is  there  hope  for  me  ?  "  — and  I  answered  gravely 
As  an  acknowledged  elder,  calmer,  wiser, 
More  gifted  mortal.      O  you  must  remember, 
For  all  your  glorious  .   .  . 

Far.  Glorious  ?  ay,  this  hair, 

These  hands  —  nay,  touch  them,  they  are  mine  !     Recall 
With  all  the  said  recallings,  times  when  thus 
To  lay  them  by  your  own  ne'er  turned  you  pale 
As  now.     Most  glorious,  are  they  not  ? 

Fest.  Why  —  why  — 

Something  must  be  subtracted  from  success 
So  wide,  no  doubt.     He  would  be  scrupulous,  truly, 
Who  should  object  such  drawbacks.     Still,  still.  Aureole, 
You  are  changed,  very  changed !   'Twere  losing  nothing 
To  look  well  to  it :  you  must  not  be  stolen 
From  the  enjoyment  of  your  well-won  meed. 

Far.  My  friend  !  you  seek  my  pleasure,  past  a  doubt : 
You  will  best  gain  your  point,  by  talking,  not 
Of  me,  but  of  yourself. 

Fest.  Have  I  not  said 

All  touching  INIiehal  and  my  children  ?     vSure 
You  know,  by  this,  full  well  how  Aennchen  looks 
Gravely,  while  one  disparts  her  thick  brown  hair ; 
And  Aureole's  glee  when  some  stray  gannet  builds 
Amid  the  birch-trees  by  the  lake.     Small  hope 
Have  I  that  he  will  honor  (the  wild  imp) 
His  namesake.     Sigh  not !   'tis  too  much  to  ask 
That  all  we  love  should  reach  the  same  proud  fate. 
But  you  are  very  kind  to  humor  me 
By  showing  interest  in  my  quiet  life  ; 
You,  who  of  old  could  never  tame  yourself 
To  tranquil  pleasures,  must  at  heart  despise  .   .   . 

Par.  Festus,  strange  secrets  are  let  out  by  death 
Who  blabs  so  oft  the  follies  of  this  world : 
And  I  am  death's  familiar,  as  you  know. 


6-i  PARACELSUS 

I  helped  a  man  to  die,  some  few  weeks  since, 
AVarped  even  from  his  go-cart  to  one  end  — 
The  living  on  princes'  smiles,  reflected  from 
A  mighty  herd  of  favorites.  No  mean  trick 
He  left  untried,  and  truly  well-nigh  wormed 
All  traces  of  God's  finoer  out  of  him : 

O 

Then  died,  grown  old.     And  just  an  hour  before, 

Having  lain  long  with  blank  and  soulless  eyes. 

He  sat  up  suddenly,  and  with  natural  voice 

Said  that  in  sj)ite  of  thick  air  and  closed  doors 

God  told  him  it  was  June  ;  and  he  knew  well. 

Without  such  telling,  harebells  grew  in  June ; 

And  all  that  kings  could  ever  give  or  take 

Would  not  be  precious  as  those  blooms  to  him. 

Just  so,  allowing  I  am  passing  sage, 

It  seems  to  me  much  worthier  argument 

Why  pansies,*  eyes  that  laugh,  bear  beauty's  prize 

From  violets,  eyes  that  dream  —  (your  Michal's  choice)  — 

Than  all  fools  find  to  wonder  at  in  me 

Or  in  my  fortunes.     And  be  very  sure 

I  say  this  from  no  prurient  restlessness. 

No  self-complacency,  itching  to  turn. 

Vary  and  view  its  pleasure  from  all  points. 

And,  in  this  instance,  willing  other  men 

Should  be  at  pains,  demonstrate  to  itself 

The  realness  of  the  very  joy  it  tastes. 

What  should  delight  me  like  the  news  of  friends 

Whose  memories  were  a  solace  to  me  oft, 

As  mountain-paths  to  wild  fowls  in  their  flight  ? 

Ofter  than  you  had  wasted  thought  on  me 

Had  you  been  wise,  and  rightly  valued  bliss. 

But  there  's  no  taming  nor  repressing  hearts  : 

God  knows  I  need  such  1  —  So,  you  heard  me  speak  ? 

^Fest.  Speak  ?  when  ? 

Par.  When  but  this  morning  at  my  class  ? 

There  was  noise  and  crowd  enough.     I  saw  you  not. 
Surely  you  know  1  am  engaged  to  fill 
The  chair  here  ?  —  that  't  is  part  of  my  proud  fate 
To  lecture  to  as  many  thick-skulled  youths 
As  please,  each  day,  to  throng  the  theatre. 
To  my  great  reputation,  and  no  small 
Danger  of  Basel's  benches  long  unused 
To  crack  beneath  such  honor  ? 

Fest.  I  was  there  ; 

I  mingled  with  the  throng :  shall  I  avow 
*  Citrinula  (flanimula)  lierba  Paracelso  multum  faniiliaris.  — DoiiN. 


PARACELSUS  65 

Small  care  was  mine  to  listen  ?  —  too  intent 
On  gathering  from  the  murnuirs  of  the  crowd 
A  full  corroboration  of  my  hopes  ! 
What  can  I  learn  about  your  powers  ?  but  they 
Know,  care  for  nought  beyond  your  actual  state, 
Your  actual  value  ;  yet  they  worship  you, 
Those  various  natures  whom  you  sway  as  one  ! 
But  ere  I  go,  be  sure  I  shall  attend  .  .  . 

Par.  Stop,  o'  God's  name  :  the  thing  's  by  no  means  yet 
Past  remedy  !     Shall  I  read  this  morning's  labor 

—  At  least  in  substance  ?     Nought  so  worth  the  gainmg 
As  an  apt  scholar  !     Thus  then,  with  all  due 
Precision  and  emphasis  —  you,  beside,  are  clearly 
Guiltless  of  understanding  more,  a  whit, 

The  subject  than  your  stool  —  allowed  to  be 
A  notable  advantage. 

Fest.  Surely,  Aureole, 

You  laugh  at  me  ! 

Par.  I  laugh  ?     Ha,  ha !  thank  heaven, 

I  charge  you,  if  't  be  so  !  for  I  forget 
Much,  and  what  laughter  shoidd  be  like.     No  less, 
However,  I  forego  that  luxury 
Since  it  alarms  the  friend  who  brings  it  back. 
True,  laughter  like  my  own  must  echo  strangely 
To  thinking  men  ;  a  smile  were  better  far  ; 
So,  make  me  smile  !     If  the  exulting  look 
You  wore  but  now  be  smiling,  't  is  so  long 
Since  I  have  smiled  !     Alas,  such  smiles  are  born 
Alone  of  hearts  like  yours,  or  herdsmen's  souls 
Of  ancient  time,  whose  eyes,  calm  as  their  flocks, 
Saw  in  the  stars  mere  garnishry  of  heaven, 
And  in  the  earth  a  stage  for  altars  only. 
Never  change,  Festus :  I  say,  never  change  ! 

Fest.  My  God,  if  he  be  wretched  after  all ! 

Par.  When  last  we  parted,  Festus,  you  declared, 

—  Or  Michal,  yes,  her  soft  lips  whispered  words 
I  have  preserved.     She  told  me  she  believed 

I  should  succeed  (meaning,  that  in  the  search 
I  then  engaged  in,  I  should  meet  success) 
And  yet  be  wretched  :  now,  she  augured  false. 

Fest.  Thank  heaven  !  but  you  spoke  strangely  :  could  I 
venture 
To  think  bare  apprehension  lest  your  friend. 
Dazzled  by  your  resplendent  course,  might  find 
Henceforth  less  sweetness  in  his  own,  could  move 
Such  earnest  mood  in  you .''     Fear  not,  dear  friend. 


66  PARACELSUS 

That  I  shall  leave  you,  inwardly  repining 
Your  lot  was  not  my  own  ! 

Par.  And  this  forever  ! 

Forever  I  gull  who  may,  they  will  be  gulled  ! 
They  will  not  look  nor  think  ;   't  is  nothing  new 
In  them  :  but  surely  he  is  not  of  them  I 
My  Festus,  do  you  know,  I  reckoned,  you  — 
Though  all  beside  were  sand-blind  —  you,  my  friend, 
Would  look  at  me,  once  close,  with  piercing  eye 
Untroubled  by  the  false  glare  that  confounds 
A  weaker  vision  ;  w^ould  remain  serene. 
Though  singular  amid  a  gaping  throng. 
I  feared  you,  or  I  had  come,  sure,  long  ere  this, 
To  Einsiedeln.     Well,  error  has  no  end. 
And  Rhasis  is  a  sage,  and  Basel  boasts 
A  tribe  of  wits,  and  I  am  wise  and  blest 
Past  all  dispute  !     'T  is  vain  to  fret  at  it. 
I  have  vowed  long  ago  my  worshippers 
Shall  owe  to  their  own  deep  sagacity 
All  further  information,  good  or  bad. 
Small  risk  indeed  my  reputation  runs. 
Unless  perchance  the  glance  now  searching  me 
Be  fixed  much  longer  ;  for  it  seems  to  sj^eU 
Dimly  the  characters  a  simpler  man 
Might  read  distinct  enough.     Old  eastern  books 
Say,  the  fallen  prince  of  morning  some  short  space 
Remained  unchanged  in  semblance  ;  nay,  his  brow 
Was  hued  with  triumph  :  every  spirit  then 
Praising,  his  heart  on  flame  the  while  :  —  a  tale  ! 
Well,  Festus,  what  discover  you,  I  pray  ? 

Fest.  Some  foul  deed  sullies  then  a  life  which  else 
Were  raised  sujjreme  ? 

Pa7\  Good  :  I  do  well,  most  well ! 

Why  strive  to  make  men  hear,  feel,  fret  themselves 
Witli  w^hat  't  is  past  their  power  to  comprehend  ? 
I  should  not  strive  now :  only,  having  nursed 
The  faint  surmise  that  one  yet  walked  the  earth. 
One,  at  least,  not  the  utter  fool  of  show, 
Not  absolutely  formed  to  be  the  dupe 
Of  shallow  plausibilities  alone  ; 
One  who,  in  youth,  found  wise  enough  to  choose 
The  happiness  his  riper  years  api)rove, 
•  Was  yet  so  anxious  for  another's  sake. 
That,  ere  his  friend  could  rush  upon  a  mad 
And  ruinous  course,  the  converse  of  his  own, 
His  gentle  S2)irit  essayed,  prejudged  for  him 


PARACELSUS  G7 

The  perilous  path,  foresaw  its  destiny, 
And  warned  the  weak  one  in  such  tender  words. 
Such  accents  —  his  whole  heart  in  every  tone  — 
That  oft  their  memory  comforted  that  friend 
When  it  by  right  should  have  increased  desjmir  : 
—  Having  believed,  I  say,  that  this  one  man 
Could  never  lose  the  light  thus  from  the  first 
His  portion  —  how  should  I  refuse  to  grieve 
At  even  my  gain  if  it  disturb  our  old 
Relation,  if  it  make  me  out  more  wise  ? 
Therefore,  once  more  reminding  him  how  well 
He  prophesied,  I  note  the  single  flaw 
That  spoils  his  prophet's  title.     In  plain  words, 
You  were  deceived,  and  thus  were  you  deceived  — 
I  have  not  been  successful,  and  yet  am 
Most  miserable  ;   't  is  said  at  last ;  nor  you 
Give  credit,  lest  you  force  me  to  concede 
That  common  sense  yet  lives  upon  the  world  ! 

Fest.  You  surely  do  not  mean  to  banter  me  ? 

_Par.   You  know,  or  —  if  you  have  been  wise  enough 
To  cleanse  your  memory  of  such  matters  —  knew. 
As  far  as  words  of  mine  could  make  it  clear, 
That 't  was  my  purpose  to  find  joy  or  grief 
Solely  in  the  fulfilment  of  my  plan 
Or  plot  or  whatsoe'er  it  was  ;  rejoicing 
Alone  as  it  proceeded  prosjierously. 
Sorrowing  then  only  when  mischance  retarded 
Its  progress.     That  was  in  those  ^V^iirzburg  days  ! 
Not  to  prolong  a  theme  I  thoroughly  hate, 
I  have  i^ursued  this  plan  with  all  my  strength  ; 
And  having  failed  therein  most  signally. 
Cannot  object  to  ruin  utter  and  drear 
As  all-excelling  would  have  been  the  prize 
Had  fortune  favored  me.     I  scarce  have  light 
To  vex  your  frank  good  spirit  late  so  glad 
In  my  supposed  prosperity,  I  know, 
And,  were  I  lucky  in  a  glut  of  friends, 
Would  well  agree  to  let  your  error  live. 
Nay,  strengthen  it  with  fables  of  success. 
But  mine  is  no  condition  to  refuse 
The  transient  solace  of  so  rare  a  godsend, 
My  solitary  luxury,  my  one  friend  : 
Accordingly  I  venture  to  put  off 
The  wearisome  vest  of  falsehood  galling  me, 
Secure  when  he  is  by.     I  lay  me  bare, 
Prone  at  his  mercy  —  but  he  is  my  friend  ! 


68  PARACELSUS 

Not  that  he  needs  retain  his  aspect  grave  ; 
That  answers  not  my  purpose ;  for  't  is  like, 
Some  sunny  morning  —  Basel  being  drained 
Of  its  wise  population,  every  corner 
Of  the  amphitheatre  crammed  with  learned  clerks, 
Here  G^colampadius,  looking  worlds  of  wit, 
Here  Castellanus,  as  profound  as  he, 
Munsterus  here,  Frobenius  there,  all  squeezed 
And  staring,  —  that  the  zany  of  the  show, 
Even  Paracelsus,  shall  j)ut  olf  before  them 
His  trappings  with  a  grace  but  seldom  judged 
Expedient  in  such  cases  :  —  the  grim  smile 
That  will  go  round  !     Is  it  not  therefore  best 
To  venture  a  rehearsal  like  the  present 
In  a  small  way  ?     Where  are  the  signs  I  seek, 
The  first-fruits  and  fair  sample  of  the  scorn 
Due  to  all  quacks  ?     Why,  this  will  never  do  ) 

Fest.  These  are  foul  vapors,  Aureole  ;  nought  beside  ! 
The  effect  of  watching,  study,  weariness. 
Were  there  a  spark  of  truth  in  the  confusion 
Of  these  wild  words,  you  would  not  outrage  thus 
Your  youth's  companion.     I  shall  ne'er  regard 
These  wanderings,  bred  of  faintness  and  much  study. 
'T  is  not  thus  you  would  trust  a  trouble  to  me, 
To  Michal's  friend. 

Par.  I  have  said  it,  dearest  Festus ! 

For  the  manner,  't  is  ungracious  probably  ; 
You  may  have  it  told  in  broken  sobs,  one  day, 
And  scalding  tears,  ere  long :  but  I  thought  best 
To  keep  that  off  as  long  as  possible. 
Do  you  wonder  still  ? 

Fest.  No  ;  it  must  oft  fall  out 

That  one  whose  labor  perfects  any  work. 
Shall  rise  from  it  with  eye  so  worn  that  he 
Of  all  men  least  can  measure  the  extent 
Of  what  he  has  accomplished.      He  alone 
Who,  nothing  tasked,  is  nothing  weary  too. 
May  clearly  scan  the  little  he  effects  : 
But  we,  the  bystanders,  untouched  by  toil, 
Estimate  each  arioht. 

Par.  This  worthy  Festus 

Is  one  of  them,  at  last !      'T  is  so  with  all ! 
First,  they  set  down  all  progress  as  a  dream  ; 
And  next,  when  he  whose  quick  discomfiture 
Was  counted  on,  accomplishes  some  few 
And  doubtful  steps  in  his  career,  —  behold, 


PARACELSUS  69 

They  look  for  every  inch  of  ground  to  vanish 
Beneath  his  tread,  so  sure  they  spy  success  ! 

Fest.   Few  doubtful  steps  ?  when  death  retires  before 
Your  presence  —  when  the  noblest  of  mankind, 
Broken  in  body  or  subdued  in  soul, 
May  through  your  skill  renew  their  vigor,  raise 
The  shattered  frame  to  pristine  stateliness  t 
When  men  in  racking  pain  may  purchase  di'eams 
Of  what  delights  them  most,  swooning  at  once 
Into  a  sea  of  bliss  or  ra])t  along 
As  in  a  flying  sphere  of  turbulent  light  ? 
When  we  may  look  to  you  as  one  ordained 
To  free  the  flesh  from  fell  disease,  as  frees 
Our  Luther's  burning  tongue  the  fettered  soul  ? 
When  .  .  . 

Par.  When  and  where,  the  devil,  did  you  get 

This  notable  news  ? 

Fest.  Even  from  the  common  voice  ; 

From  those  whose  envy,  daring  not  dispute 
The  wonders  it  decries,  attributes  them 
To  magic  and  such  folly. 

Par.  '        FoUy?     Why  not 

To  magic,  pray  ?     You  fi.nd  a  comfort  doubtless 
In  holding,  God  ne'er  troubles  him  about 
Us  or  our  doings  :  once  we  were  judged  worth 
The  devil's  tempting  ...  I  offend  :  forgive  me, 
And  rest  content.     Your  prophecy  on  the  whole 
Was  fair  enough  as  prophesyings  go ; 
At  fault  a  little  in  detail,  but  quite 
Precise  enough  in  the  main  :  and  hereupon 
I  pay  due  homage :  you  guessed  long  ago 
(The  prophet !)  I  should  fail  —  and  I  have  failed. 

Fest.    You  mean  to  tell  me,  then,  the  hopes  which  fed 
Your  youth  have  not  been  realized  as  yet  ? 
Some  obstacle  has  barred  them  hitherto  ? 
Or  that  their  innate  .  .  . 

Par.  As  I  said  but  now, 

You  have  a  very  decent  prophet's  fame, 
So  you  but  shun  details  here.     Little  matter 
Whether  those  hopes  were  mad,  —  the  aims  they  sought, 
Safe  and  secure  from  all  ambitious  fools  ; 
Or  whether  my  weak  wits  are  overcome 
By  what  a  better  spirit  would  scorn  :  I  fail. 
And  now  methinks  *t  were  best  to  change  a  theme 
I  am  a  sad  fool  to  have  stumbled  on. 
I  say  confusedly  what  comes  ufjpermost ; 


70  PARACELSUS 

But  there  are  times  Avhen  patience  proves  at  fault, 

As  now  :  this  morning's  strange  encounter  —  you 

Beside  me  once  again  !  you,  whom  I  guessed 

Alive,  since  hitherto  (with  Luther's  leave) 

No  friend  have  I  among  the  saints  at  peace, 

To  judge  by  any  good  their  prayers  effect : 

I  knew  you  would  have  helped  me  —  why  not  he, 

My  strange  competitor  in  enterprise, 

Bound  for  the  same  end  by  another  path, 

Arrived,  or  ill  or  well,  before  the  time 

At  our  disastrous  journey's  doubtful  close  ? 

How  goes  it  with  Aprile  ?     Ah,  they  miss 

Your  lone  sad  sunny  idleness  of  heaven. 

Our  martyrs  for  the  world's  sake  ;  heaven  shuts  fast : 

The  poor  mad  poet  is  howling  by  this  time  ! 

Since  you  are  my  sole  friend  then,  here  or  there, 

I  could  not  quite  repress  the  varied  feelings 

This  meeting  wakens  ;  they  have  had  their  vent. 

And  now  forget  them.     Do  the  rear-mice  still 

Hang  like  a  fretwork  on  the  gate  (or  what 

In  my  time  was  a  gate)  fronting  the  road 

From  Einsiedeln  to  Lachen? 

Fest.  Trifle  not : 

Answer  me,  for  my  sake  alone  !     You  smiled 
Just  now,  when  I  supposed  some  deed,  unworthy 
Yourself,  might  blot  the  else  so  bright  result ; 
Yet  if  your  motives  have  continued  pure. 
Your  will  unfaltering,  and  in  spite  of  this, 
You  have  experienced  a  defeat,  why  then 
I  say  not  you  would  cheerfully  withdraw 
From  contest  —  moi'tal  hearts  are  not  so  fashioned  — 
But  surely  you  would  ne'ertheless  withdraw. 
You  sought  not  fame  nor  gain  nor  even  love, 
No  end  distinct  from  knowledge,  —  I  repeat 
Your  very  words  :  once  satisfied  that  knowledge 
Is  a  mere  dream,  you  would  announce  as  much. 
Yourself  the  first.     But  how  is  the  event  ? 
You  are  defeated  —  and  I  find  you  here  ! 

Par.     As  though  "  here  "  did  not  signify  defeat ! 
I  spoke  not  of  my  little  labors  liere 
But  of  the  break-down  of  my  general  aims  : 
For  you,  aware  of  their  extent  and  scope, 
To  look  on  these  sage  lecturings,  approved 
By  beardless  boys,  and  bearded  dotards  worse. 
As  a  fit  consummation  of  such  aims, 
Is  worthy  notice.     A  professorship 


PARACELSUS  71 

At  Basel  I     Since  you  see  so  much  in  it, 

And  think  my  life  was  reasonably  drained 

Of  life's  delights  to  render  me  a  match 

For  duties  arduous  as  such  post  demands,  — 

Be  it  far  from  me  to  deny  my  power 

To  fill  the  petty  circle  lotted  out 

Of  infinite  space,  or  justify  the  host 

Of  honors  thence  accruing.      So,  take  notice,"^ 

This  jewel  dangling  from  my  neck  preserves 

The  features  of  a  prince,  my  skill  restored 

To  plague  his  people  some  few  years  to  come : 

And  all  through  a  pure  whim.      He  had  eased  the  earth 

For  me,  but  that  the  droll  despair  which  seized 

The  vermin  of  his  household,  tickled  me. 

I  came  to  see.      Here,  drivelled  the  physician^^ 

Whose  most  infallible  nostrum  was  at  fault ; 

There  quaked  the  astrologer,  whose  horoscope 

Had  promised  him  interminable  years  ; 

Here  a  monk  fumbled  at  the  sick  man's  mouth 

With  some  undoubted  relic  —  a  sudary 

Of  the  Virgin  ;  while  another  piebald  knave 

Of  the  same  brotherhood  (he  loved  them  ever) 

Was  actively  preparing  'neath  his  nose 

Such  a  suffumigation  as,  once  fired, 

Had  stunk  the  patient  dead  ere  he  could  groan. 

I  cursed  the  doctor  and  upset  the  brother, 

Brushed  past  the  conjurer,  vowed  that  the  first  gust 

Of  stench  from  the  ingredients  just  alight 

Would  raise  a  cross-grained  devil  in  my  sword, 

Not  easily  laid  :  and  ere  an  hour  the  prince 

Slept  as  he  never  slept  since  prince  he  was. 

A  day  —  and  I  was  posting  for  my  life. 

Placarded  through  the  town  as  one  whose  spite 

Had  near  availed  to  stop  the  blessed  effects 

Of  the  doctor's  nostrum,  which,  well  seconded 

By  the  sudary,  and  most  by  the  costly  smoke  — 

Not  leaving  out  the  strenuous  prayers  sent  up 

Hard  by  in  the  abbey  —  raised  the  prince  to  lifej^ 

To  the  great  reputation  of  the  seer 

Who,  confident,  expected  all  along 

The  glad  event  —  the  doctor's  recomj^ense  — 

Much  largess  from  his  highness  to  the  monks  — 

And  the  vast  solace  of  his  loving  people. 

Whose  general  satisfaction  to  increase, 

The  prince  was  pleased  no  longer  to  defer 

The  burnincj  of  some  dozen  heretics 


72  PARACELSUS 

Remanded  till  God's  mercy  should  be  shown 

Touching  his  sickness  :  last  of  all  were  joined 

Ample  directions  to  all  loyal  folk 

To  swell  the  complement  by  seizing  me 

Who  —  doubtless  some  rank  sorcerer  —  endeavored 

To  thwart  these  pious  offices,  obstruct 

The  prince's  cure,  and  frustrate  heaven  by  help 

Of  certain  devils  dwelling  in  his  sword. 

By  luck,  the  prince  in  his  first  fit  of  thanks 

Had  forced  this  bauble  on  me  as  an  earnest 

Of  f mother  favors.     This  one  case  may  serve 

To  give  sufficient  taste  of  many  such, 

So,  let  them  pass.     Those  shelves  support  a  pile 

Of  patents,  licenses,  diplomas,  titles. 

From  Germany,  France,  Spain,  and  Italy  ; 

They  authorize  some  honor  ;  ne'ertheless, 

I  set  more  store  by  this  Erasmus  sent ; 

He  trusts  me  ;  our  Frobenius  is  his  friend. 

And  him  "  I  raised  "  (nay,  read  it)  "  from  the  dead." 

I  weary  you,  I  see.     I  merely  sought 

To  show,  there  's  no  great  wonder  after  all 

That,  while  I  fill  the  class-room  and  attract 

A  crowd  to  Basel,  I  get  leave  to  stay ; 

And  therefore  need  not  scruple  to  accept 

The  utmost  they  can  offer,  if  I  please : 

For  't  is  but  right  the  world  should  be  prepared 

To  treat  with  favor  e'en  fantastic  wants 

Of  one  like  me,  used  up  in  serving  her. 

Just  as  the  mortal,  whom  the  gods  in  part 

Devoured,  received  in  place  of  his  lost  limb 

Some  virtue  or  other  —  cured  disease,  I  think  ; 

You  mind  the  fables  we  have  read  together. 

Fest.  You  do  not  think  I  comprehend  a  word. 
The  time  was.  Aureole,  you  wei'e  apt  enough 
To  clothe  the  airiest  thoughts  in  specious  breath  ; 
But  surely  you  must  feel  how  vag-ue  and  strange 
These  speeches  sound. 

Par.  Well,  then  :  you  know  my  hopei 

- 1  am  assured,  at  length,  those  liopes  were  vain ; 
That  truth  is  just  as  far  from  me  as  ever  ; 
That  I  have  thrown  my  life  away  ;  that  sorrow 
On  that  account  is  idle,  and  furtlier  effort 
To  mend  and  patch  what 's  marred  beyond  repairing, 
As  useless :  and  all  this  was  taught  your  friend 
By  the  convincing  good  old-fashioned  method 
Of  force  —  by  sheer  compulsion.     Is  that  plain  ? 


PARACELSUS  73 

Fest.  Dear  Aureole,  can  it  be  my  fears  were  just  ? 
God  wills  not  .  .  . 

Par.  Now,  't  is  this  I  most  admire  — 

The  constant  talk  men  of  your  stamp  keep  up 
Of  God's  will,  as  they  style  it ;  one  would  swear 
Man  had  but  merely  to  uplift  his  eye. 
And  see  the  will  in  question  charactered 
On  the  heaven's  vault.     'T  is  hardly  wise  to  moot 
Such  topics  :  doubts  are  many  and  faith  is  weak. 
I  know  as  much  of  any  will  of  God 
As  knows  some  dumb  and  tortured  brute  what  Man, 
His  stern  lord,  wills  from  the  perplexing  blows 
That  plague  him  every  way  ;  but  there,  of  course, 
Where  least  he  suffers,  longest  he  remains  — 
My  case  ;  and  for  such  reasons  I  plod  on. 
Subdued  but  not  convinced.     I  know  as  little 
Why  I  deserve  to  fail,  as  why  I  hoped 
Better  things  in  my  youth.     I  simply  know 
I  am  no  master  here,  but  trained  and  beaten 
Into  the  path  I  tread  ;  and  here  I  stay. 
Until  some  further  intimation  reach  me, 
Like  an  obedient  drudge.     Though  I  prefer 
To  view  the  whole  thing  as  a  task  imposed 
Which,  whether  dull  or  pleasant,  must  be  done  — 
Yet,  I  deny  not,  there  is  made  provision 
Of  joys  which  tastes  less  jaded  might  affect ; 
Nay,  some  which  please  me  too,  for  all  my  pride  — 
Pleasures  that  once  were  pains :  the  iron  ring- 
Festering  about  a  slave's  neck  grows  at  length 
Into  the  flesh  it  eats.     I  hate  no  longer 
A  host  of  petty  vile  delights,  undreamed  of 
Or  spurned  before  ;  such  now  supply  the  place 
Of  my  dead  aims :   as  in  the  autumn  woods 
Where  tall  trees  used  to  flourish,  from  their  roots 
Springs  up  a  fungous  brood  sickly  and  pale, 
Chill  mushrooms  colored  like  a  corpse's  cheek. 

Fest.  If  I  interpret  well  your  words,  I  own 
It  troubles  me  but  little  that  your  aims. 
Vast  in  their  dawning  and  most  likely  grown 
Extravagantly  since,  have  baffled  you. 
Perchance  I  am  glad  ;  you  merit  greater  praise  ; 
Because  they  are  too  glorious  to  be  gained. 
You  do  not  blindly  cling  to  them  and  die  ; 
You  fell,  but  have  not  sullenly  refused 
To  rise,  because  an  angel  worsted  you 
In  wrestling,  though  the  world  holds  not  your  peer  ; 


74  PARACELSUS 

And  though  too  harsh  and  sudden  is  the  change 
To  yield  content  as  yet,  still  you  pursue 
The  ungracious  path  as  though  't  were  rosy-strewn. 
'T  is  well :  and  your  reward,  or  soon  or  late, 
Will  come  from  him  w^hom  no  man  serves  in  vain. 

Par.  Ah,  very  fine  !      For  my  part,  I  conceive 
The  very  pausing  from  all  further  toil, 
Which  you  find  heinous,  would  become  a  seal 
To  the  sincerity  of  all  my  deeds. 
To  be  consistent  I  should  die  at  once  ; 
I  calculated  on  no  after-life  ; 
Yet  (how  crei)t  in,  how  fostered,  I  know  not) 
Here  am  I  with  as  j^assionate  regret 
For  youth  and  health  and  love  so  vainly  lavished, 
As  if  their  jjreservation  had  been  first 
And  foremost  in  my  thoughts  ;  and  this  strange  fact 
Humbled  me  wondrously,  and  had  due  force 
In  rendering  me  the  less  averse  to  follow 
A  certain  counsel,  a  mysterious  warning  — 
You  will  not  understand  —  but  't  was  a  man 
With  aims  not  mine  and  yet  pursued  like  mine, 
With  the  same  fervor  and  no  more  success. 
Perishing  in  my  sight ;  who  summoned  me. 
As  I  would  shun  the  ghastly  fate  I  saw, 
To  serve  my  race  at  once  ;  to  wait  no  longer 
That  God  should  interfere  in  my  behalf, 
But  to  distrust  myself,  put  pride  away. 
And  give  my  gains,  imperfect  as  they  were, 
To  men.     I  have  not  leisure  to  explain 
How,  since,  a  singular  series  of  events 
Has  raised  me  to  the  station  you  behold, 
Wherein  I  seem  to  turn  to  most  account 
The  mere  wreck  of  the  past,  —  perhaps  receive 
Some  feeble  glimmering  token  that  God  views 
And  may  approve  my  penance :  therefore  here 
You  find  me,  doing  most  good  or  least  harm. 
And  if  folks  wonder  much  and  profit  little 
'T  is  not  my  fault ;  only,  I  shall  rejoice 
When  my  part  in  the  farce  is  shuffled  tlirough. 
And  the  curtain  falls  :   I  must  hold  out  till  then. 

P'est.  Till  when,  dear  Aureole  ? 

Par.  Till  I  'm  fairly  thrust 

From  my  proud  eminence.     Fortune  is  fickle, 
And  even  })rofessors  fall :  should  that  arrive, 
I  see  no  sin  in  ceding  to  my  bent. 
You  little  fancy  what  nule  shocks  a2)prise  us 


PARACELSUS  75 

We  sin  ;  God's  intimations  rather  fail 
In  clearness  than  in  energy  :  't  were  well 
Did  they  but  indicate  the  course  to  take 
Like  that  to  be  forsaken.     I  would  fain 
Be  spared  a  further  sample.     Here  I  stand, 
And  here  I  stay,  be  sure,  till  forced  to  flit. 

Fest.  Be  you  but  firm  on  that  head  ;  long*  ere  then 
All  I  expect  will  come  to  pass,  I  trust : 
The  cloud  that  wraps  you  will  have  disappeared. 
Meantime,  I  see  small  chance  of  such  event : 
They  praise  you  here  as  one  whose  lore,  already 
Divulged,  eclipses  all  the  past  can  show, 
But  whose  achievements,  marvellous  as  they  be, 
Are  faint  anticipations  of  a  glory 
About  to  be  revealed.     When  Basel's  crowds 
Dismiss  their  teacher,  I  shall  be  content 
That  he  depart. 

Par.  This  favor  at  their  hands 

I  look  for  earlier  than  your  view  of  things 
Would  warrant.     Of  the  crowd  you  saw  to-day. 
Remove  the  full  half  sheer  amazement  draws. 
Mere  novelty,  nought  else  ;   and  next,  the  tribe 
Whose  innate  blockish  dulness  just  perceives 
That  unless  miracles  (as  seem  my  works) 
Be  wrought  in  their  behalf,  their  chance  is  slight 
To  puzzle  the  devil ;  next,  the  numerous  set 
Who  bitterly  hate  established  schools,  and  help 
The  teacher  that  oppugns  them,  till  he  once 
Have  planted  his  own  doctrine,  when  the  teacher 
May  reckon  on  their  rancor  in  his  turn  ; 
Take,  too,  the  sprinkling  of  sagacious  knaves 
Whose  cunning  runs  not  counter  to  the  vogue, 
But  seeks,  by  flattery  and  crafty  nursing, 
To  force  my  system  to  a  premature 
Short-lived  development.     Why  swell  the  list  ? 
Each  has  his  end  to  serve,  and  his  best  way 
Of  serving  it :  remove  all  these,  remains 
A  scantling,  a  poor  dozen  at  the  best. 
Worthy  to  look  for  sympathy  and  service. 
And  likely  to  draw  profit  from  my  pains. 

Fest.  'T  is  no  encouraging  picture  :  still  these  few 
Redeem  their  fellows.     Once  the  germ  implanted, 
Its  gi'owth,  if  slow,  is  sure. 

Par.  God  grant  it  so  ! 

I  would  make  some  amends  :  but  if  I  fail, 
The  luckless  rogues  have  this  excuse  to  urge, 


76  PARACELSUS 

That  much  is  in  my  method  and  my  manner, 

My  uncouth  habits,  my  impatient  spirit, 

Which  hinders  of  recejition  and  result 

My  doctrine  :  nuich  to  say,  small  skill  to  speak ! 

These  old  aims  suffered  not  a  looking-off 

Though  for  an  instant ;  therefore,  only  when 

I  thus  renounced  them  and  resolved  to  reap 

Some  present  fruit  —  to  teach  mankind  some  truth 

So  dearly  purchased  —  only  then  I  found 

Such  teaching  was  an  art  requiring  cares 

And  qualities  peculiar  to  itself  ; 

That  to  possess  was  one  thing  —  to  display 

Another.     With  renown  first  in  my  thoughts, 

Or  pojDular  praise,  I  had  soon  discovered  it : 

One  grows  but  little  apt  to  learn  these  things. 

Fest.  If  it  be  so,  which  nowise  I  believe, 
There  needs  no  waiting  fuller  dispensation 
To  leave  a  labor  of  so  little  use. 
Why  not  throw  up  the  irksome  charge  at  once  ? 

Par.  A  task,  a  task  ! 

But  wherefore  hide  the  whole 
Extent  of  degradation,  once  engaged 
In  the  confessing  vein  ?     Despite  of  all 
My  fine  talk  of  obedience  and  repugnance, 
Docility  and  what  not,  't  is  yet  to  learn 
If  when  the  task  shall  really  be  performed, 
My  inclination  free  to  choose  once  more, 
I  shall  do  aught  but  slightly  modify 
The  nature  of  the  hated  task  I  quit. 
In  plain  words,  I  am  spoiled  ;  my  life  still  tends 
As  first  it  tended  ;   I  am  broken  and  trained 
To  my  old  habits  :   they  are  part  of  me. 
I  know,  and  none  so  well,  my  darling  ends 
Are  proved  im])ossible  :  no  less,  no  less, 
Even  now  what  humors  me,  fond  fool,  as  when 
Their  faint  ghosts  sit  with  me  and  flatter  me 
And  send  me  back  content  to  my  dull  round  ? 
How  can  I  change  this  soul  ?  —  this  apparatus 
Constructed  solely  for  their  purposes, 
So  well  adapted  to  their  every  want. 
To  search  out  and  discover,  prove  and  perfect ; 
This  intricate  machine  whose  most  minute 
And  meanest  motions  have  their  charm  to  me 
Though  to  none  else  —  an  aptitude  I  seize. 
An  object  I  perceive,  a  use,  a  meaning, 
A  property,  a  fitness,  I  explain 


PARACELSUS  77 

And  I  alone  :  —  how  can  I  change  my  soul  ? 

And  this  wronged  body,  worthless  save  when  tasked 

Under  that  soul's  dominion  —  used  to  care 

For  its  bright  master's  cares  and  quite  subdue 

Its  proper  cravings  —  not  to  ail  nor  pine 

So  he  but  prosper  —  whither  drag  this  poor 

Tried  patient  body  ?     God  I  how  I  essayed 

To  live  like  that  mad  poet,  for  a  while, 

To  love  alone  ;  and  how  I  felt  too  warped 

And  twisted  and  deformed  !      What  should  I  do, 

Even  though  released  from  drudgery,  but  return 

Faint,  as  you  see,  and  halting,  blind  and  sore, 

To  my  old  life  and  die  as  I  began  ! 

I  cannot  feed  on  beauty  for  the  sake 

Of  beauty  only,  nor  can  drink  in  balm 

From  lovely  objects  for  their  loveliness  ; 

My  nature  cannot  lose  her  first  imprint ; 

I  still  must  hoard  and  heap  and  class  all  truths 

With  one  ulterior  purpose  :  I  must  know  ! 

Would  God  translate  me  to  his  throne,  believe 

That  I  should  only  listen  to  his  word 

To  further  my  own  aim  !     For  other  men, 

Beauty  is  prodigally  strewn  around. 

And  I  were  happy  could  I  quench  as  they 

This  mad  and  tliriveless  longing,  and  content  me 

With  beauty  for  itself  alone  :  alas, 

I  have  addressed  a  frock  of  heavy  mail 

Yet  may  not  join  the  troop  of  sacred  knights ; 

And  now  the  forest-creatures  fly  from  me, 

The  grass-banks  cool,  the  sunbeams  warm  no  more. 

Best  follow,  dreaming  that  ere  night  arrive, 

I  shall  o'ertake  the  company  and  ride 

Glittering  as  they ! 

Fest.  I  think  I  apprehend 

What  you  would  say  :  if  you,  in  truth,  design 
To  enter  once  more  on  the  life  thus  left, 
Seek  not  to  hide  that  all  this  consciousness 
Of  failure  is  assumed  ! 

Par.  My  friend,  my  friend, 

I  tell,  you  listen  ;   I  explain,  perlia-ps 
You  understand  :  there  our  communion  ends. 
Have  you  learnt  nothing  from  to-day's  discourse  ? 
When  we  would  thoroughly  know  the  sick  man's  state 
We  feel  awhile  the  fluttering  pulse,  press  soft 
The  hot  brow,  look  upon  the  languid  eye, 
And  thence  divine  the  rest.     Must  I  lay  bare 


78  PARACELSUS 

My  heart,  hideous  and  beating,  or  tear  up 

My  vitals  for  your  gaze,  ere  you  will  deem 

Enough  made  known  ?     You  !  who  are  you,  forsooth  ? 

That  is  the  crowning  of)eration  claimed 

By  the  arch-demonstrator  —  heaven  the  hall, 

And  earth  the  audience.     Let  Aprile  and  you 

Secm-e  good  places :  't  will  be  worth  the  while. 

Fest.  Are  you  mad,  Aureole  ?     What  can  I  have  said 
To  call  for  this  ?     I  judged  from  your  own  words. 

Par.  Oh,  doubtless  !     A  sick  ^vretch  describes  the  ape 
That  mocks  him  from  the  bed-foot,  and  all  gravely 
You  thither  turn  at  once  :  or  he  recounts 
The  perilous  journey  he  has  late  performed. 
And  you  are  puzzled  much  how  that  could  be  ! 
You  find  me  here,  half  stupid  and  half  mad ; 
It  makes  no  part  of  my  delight  to  search 
Into  these  matters,  much  less  undergo 
Another's  scrutiny  ;  but  so  it  chances 
That  I  am  led  to  trust  my  state  to  you  : 
And  the  event  is,  you  combine,  contrast 
And  ponder  on  my  foolish  words  as  though 
Tliey  thoroughly  conveyed  all  hidden  here  — 
Here,  loathsome  with  despair  and  hate  and  rage  ! 


Is  there  no  fear,  no  shrinking  and  no  shame 

Will  you  guess  nothing  ?  will  you  spare  me  nothing  ? 

Must  I  go  deejjer  ?     Ay  or  no  ? 

Fest.  Dear  friend  .  .  . 

Par.  True  :  I  am  brutal  —  't  is  a  part  of  it ; 
The  plague's  sign  —  you  are  not  a  lazar-haunter. 
How  should  you  know  ?     Well  then,  you  think  it  strange 
I  should  profess  to  have  failed  utterly, 
And  yet  propose  an  ultimate  return 
To  courses  void  of  hope  :  and  this,  because 
You  know  not  what  temptation  is,  nor  how 
'T  is  like  to  ply  men  in  the  sickliest  part. 
You  are  to  understand  that  we  who  make 
Sport  for  the  gods,  are  hunted  to  the  end : 
Tliere  is  not  one  sharp  volley  shot  at  us, 
Which  'scaped  witli  life,  though  hurt,  we  slacken  pace 
And  gather  by  the  wayside  herbs  and  roots 
To  stanch  our  wounds,  secure  from  further  harm  : 
We  are  assailed  to  life's  extrcmest  verge. 
It  will  be  well  indeed  if  I  return, 

A  hai-mless  busy  fool,  to  my  old  ways !  A 

I  would  forget  hints  of  anotlier  fate,  » 

Significant  enough,  which  silent  hours 
Have  lately  scared  me  with. 


PARACELSUS  79 

Fest.  Another  !  and  what  ? 

Par.     After  all,  Festus,  you  say  well:  I  am 
A  man  yet :   I  need  never  humble  me. 
I  would  have  been  —  something,  1  know  not  what ; 
But  though  I  cannot  soar,  I  do  not  crawl. 
There  are  worse  portions  than  this  one  of  mine. 
You  say  well ! 

Fest.  Ah ! 

Par.  And  deeper  degradation  ! 

If  the  mean  stimulants  of  vulgar  praise, 
If  vanity  should  become  the  chosen  food 
Of  a  sunk  mind,  should  stifle  even  the  wish 
To  find  its  early  aspirations  true, 

Should  teach  it  to  breathe  falsehood  like  life-breath  — 
An  atmosphere  of  craft  and  trick  and  lies  ; 
Should  make  it  proud  to  emulate,  surpass 
Base  natures  in  the  practices  which  woke 
Its  most  indignant  loathing  once  .   .  .  No,  no ! 
Utter  damnation  is  reserved  for  hell ! 
I  had  immortal  feelings  ;  such  shall  never 
Be  wholly  quenched  :  no,  no  ! 

My  friend,  you  wear 
A  melancholy  face,  and  certain  't  is 
There  's  little  cheer  in  all  this  dismal  work. 
But  was  it  my  desire  to  set  abroach 
Such  memories  and  forebodings  ?     I  foresaw 
Where  they  would  drive.     'T  were  better  we  discuss 
News  from  Lucerne  or  Zurich  ;  ask  and  tell 
Of  Egypt's  flaring  sky  or  Spain's  cork-groves. 

Fest.  I  have  thought :    trust    me,  this    mood  will  pass 
away ! 
I  know  you  and  the  lofty  spirit  you  bear, 
And  easily  ravel  out  a  clue  to  all. 
These  are  the  trials  meet  for  such  as  you, 
Nor  must  you  hojie  exemption  :  to  be  mortal 
Is  to  be  plied  with  trials  manifold. 
Look  round  !     The  obstacles  which  kept  the  rest 
From  your  ambition,  have  been  spurned  by  you  ; 
Their  fears,  their  doubts,  the  chains  that  bind  them  all, 
Were  flax  before  your  resolute  soul,  which  nought 
Avails  to  awe  save  these  delusions  bred 
From  its  own  strength,  its  selfsame  strength  disguised, 
Mocking  itself.     Be  brave,  dear  Aureole  I     Since 
The  rabbit  has  his  shade  to  frighten  him. 
The  fawn  a  rustling  bough,  mortals  their  cares. 
And  higher  natures  yet  would  slight  and  laugh 


80  PARACELSUS 

At  these  entangling  fantasies,  as  you 

At  trammels  of  a  weaker  intellect,  — 

Measure  your  mind's  height  by  the  shade  it  casts  ! 

I  know  you. 

Far.  And  I  know  you,  dearest  Festus  ! 

And  how  you  love  unworthily  ;   and  how 
All  admiration  renders  blind. 

Fest.  You  hold 

That  admiration  blinds  ? 

Fai\  Ay  and  alas  ! 

Fest.     Nought  blinds  you  less  than  admiration,  friend ! 
Whether  it  be  that  all  love  renders  wise 
In  its  degree  ;  from  love  which  blends  with  love  — 
Heart  answering  heart  —  to  love  which  spends  itself 
In  silent  mad  idolatry  of  some 
Pre-eminent  mortal,  some  great  soul  of  souls, 
Which  ne'er  will  know  how  well  it  is  adored. 
I  say,  such  love  is  never  blind  ;   but  rather 
Alive  to  every  the  minutest  spot 
Which  mars  its  object,  and  which  hate  (supposed 
So  vigilant  and  searching)  dreams  not  of. 
Love  broods  on  such  :  what  then  ?     When  first  perceived 
Is  there  no  sweet  strife  to  forget,  to  change, 
To  overflush  those  blemishes  with  all 
The  glow  of  general  goodness  they  disturb  ? 
—  To  make  those  very  defects  an  endless  source 
Of  new  affection  grown  from  hopes  and  fears  ? 
And,  when  all  fails,  is  there  no  gallant  stand 
Made  even  for  much  proved  weak  ?  no  shrinking-back 
Lest,  since  all  love  assimilates  the  soul 
To  what  it  loves,  it  should  at  length  become 
Almost  a  rival  of  its  idol  ?     Trust  me. 
If  there  be  fiends  who  seek  to  work  our  hurt. 
To  ruin  and  drag  down  earth's  mightiest  spirits 
Even  at  God's  foot,  't  will  be  from  such  as  love, 
Their  zeal  will  gather  most  to  serve  their  cause  ; 
And  least  from  those  who  hate,  who  most  essay 
By  contumely  and  scorn  to  blot  the  light 
Which  forces  entrance  even  to  their  hearts  : 
For  thence  will  our  defender  tear  the  veil 
And  show  within  each  heart,  as  in  a  shrine, 
The  giant  image  of  perfection,  grown 
In  hate's  despite,  whose  calumnies  were  spawned 
In  the  untroubled  presence  of  its  eyes. 
True  admiration  blinds  not ;  nor  am  T 
So  blind.     I  call  your  sin  exce2)tional ; 


PARACELSUS  81 

It  springs  from  one  whose  life  has  passed  the  bounds 
Prescribed  to  life.     Compound  that  fault  with  God  ! 
I  speak  of  men  ;  to  connnon  men  like  me 
The  weakness  you  reveal  endears  you  more, 
Like  the  far  traces  of  decay  in  suns. 
I  bid  you  have  good  cheer  ! 

Far.  Pr cedar e  !    Optime  ! 

Think  of  a  quiet  mountain-cloistered  priest 
Instructing  Paracelsus  !  yet  't  is  so. 
Come,  I  will  show  you  where  my  merit  lies. 
'Tis  in  the  advance  of  individual  minds 
That  the  slow  crowd  should  ground  their  expectation 
Eventually  to  follow  ;  as  the  sea 
Waits  aees  in  its  bed  till  some  one  wave 
Out  of  the  multitudinous  mass,  extends 
The  empire  of  the  whole,  some  feet  perhaps. 
Over  the  strip  of  sand  which  could  confine 
Its  fellows  so  long  time  :  thenceforth  the  rest, 
Even  to  the  meanest,  hurry  in  at  once. 
And  so  much  is  clear  gamed.     I  shall  be  glad 
If  all  my  labors,  failing  of  aught  else, 
Suffice  to  make  such  inroad  and  procure 
A  wider  range  for  thought :  nay,  they  do  this  j 
For,  whatsoe'er  my  notions  of  true  knowledge 
And  a  legitimate  success,  may  be, 
I  am  not  blind  to  my  undoubted  rank 
When  classed  with  others  :  I  precede  my  age : 
And  whoso  wills  is  very  free  to  mount 
These  labors  as  a  platform  whence  his  own 
May  have  a  prosperous  outset.     But,  alas  ! 
My  followers  —  they  are  noisy  as  you  heard  ; 
But,  for  intelligence,  the  best  of  them 
So  clumsily  wield  the  weapons  I  supply 
And  they  extol,  that  I  begin  to  doubt 
Whether  their  own  rude  clubs  and  pebble-stones 
Would  not  do  better  service  than  my  arms 
Thus  vilely  swayed  —  if  error  will  not  fall 
Sooner  before  the  old  awkward  batterings, 
Than  my  more  subtle  warfare,  not  half  learned. 

Fest.  I  would  supply  that  art,  then,  or  withhold 
New  arms  until  you  teach  their  mystery. 

Far.  Content  you,  't  is  my  wish  ;  I  have  recourse 
To  the  simplest  training.     Day  by  day  I  seek 
To  wake  the  mood,  the  spirit  which  alone 
Can  make  those  arms  of  any  use  to  men. 
Of  course  they  are  for  swaggering  forth  at  once 


82  PARACELSUS 

Graced  with  Ulysses'  bow,  Achilles'  shield  — 
Flash  on  us,  all  in  armor,  thou  Achilles ! 
Make  our  hearts  dance  to  thy  resounding  step  ! 
A  i3ro2)er  sight  to  scare  the  crows  away ! 

Fest.  Pity  you  choose  not  then  some  other  method 
Of  coming  at  your  2)oint.     The  marvellous  art 
At  leno'tli  established  in  the  world  bids  fair 
To  remedy  all  hindrances  like  these  : 
Trust  to  Frobenius'  press  the  precious  lore 
Obscured  by  uncouth  manner,  or  unfit 
For  raw  beginners  ;  let  his  types  secure 
A  deathless  monument  to  after-time  ; 
Meanwhile  wait  confidently  and  enjoy 
The  ultimate  effect :  sooner  or  later 
You  shall  be  all-revealed. 

Par.  The  old  dull  question 

In  a  new  form  ;   no  more.     Thus  :  I  possess 
Two  sorts  of  knowledge  ;  one,  —  vast,  shadowy. 
Hints  of  the  unbounded  aim  I  once  pursued  : 
The  other  consists  of  many  secrets,  caught 
While  bent  on  nobler  prize,  —  perhaps  a  few 
Prime  j^rinciples  which  may  conduct  to  much : 
These  last  I  offer  to  my  followers  here. 
Now,  bid  me  chronicle  the  first  of  these, 
My  ancient  study,  and  in  effect  you  bid 
Revert  to  the  wild  courses  just  abjured  : 
I  must  go  find  them  scattered  through  the  world 
Then,  for  the  principles,  they  are  so  simple 
(Being  chiefly  of  the  overturning  sort). 
That  one  time  is  as  proper  to  propound  them 
As  any  other  —  to-morrow  at  my  class. 
Or  half  a  century  hence  embalmed  in  print. 
For  if  mankind  intend  to  learn  at  all, 
They  must  begin  by  giving  faith  to  them 
And  acting  on  them  ;  and  I  do  not  see 
But  that  my  lectures  serve  indifferent  well : 
No  doubt  these  dogmas  fall  not  to  the  earth, 
For  all  their  novelty  and  rugged  setting. 
I  think  my  class  mil  not  forget  the  day 
I  let  them  know  the  gods  of  Israel, 
Aetius,  Oribasius,  Galen,  Rhasis, 
Serapion,  Avicenna,  Averroes, 
Were  blocks  ! 

Fe^^t.  And  that  reminds  me,  I  heard  something 

About  your  waywardness  :  you  burned  their  books. 
It  seems,  instead  of  answering  those  sages. 


PAllACELSUS  83 

Par.  And  who  said  that  ? 

Fest.  Some  I  met  yesternight 

With  QCeolampadius.     As  you  know,  the  purpose 
Of  this  short  stay  at  Basel  was  to  learn 
His  pleasure  touching  certain  missives  sent 
For  our  Zuinglius  and  himself.     'T  was  he 
Apprised  me  that  the  famous  teacher  here 
Was  my  old  friend. 

Far.  Ah,  I  forgot :  you  went  .  .  . 

Fest.  From  Zurich  with  advices  for  the  ear 
Of  Luther,  now  at  Wittenberg  —  (you  know, 
I  make  no  doubt,  the  differences  of  late 
With  Carolostadius)  —  and  returning  sought 
Basel  and  .  .  . 

Par.  I  remember.     Here  's  a  case,  now, 

Will  teach  you  why  I  answer  not,  but  burn 
The  books  you  mention  :  pray,  does  Luther  dream 
His  arguments  convince  by  their  own  force 
The  crowds  that  own  his  doctrine  ?     No,  indeed  : 
His  plain  denial  of  established  points 
Ages  had  sanctified  and  men  supposed 
Could  never  be  oppugned  while  earth  was  under 
And  heaven  above  them  —  points  which  chance  or  time 
Affected  not  —  did  mare  than  the  array 
Of  argument  which  followed.     Boldly  deny  ! 
There  is  much  breath-stopping,  hair-stiffening 
Awhile  ;  then,  amazed  glances,  mute  awaiting 
The  thunderbolt  which  does  not  come  :  and  next, 
Rej^roachful  wonder  and  inquiry  :  those 
Who  else  had  never  stirred,  are  able  now 
To  find  the  rest  out  for  themselves,  perhaps 
To  outstrip  him  who  set  the  whole  at  work, 
—  As  never  will  my  wise  class  its  instructor. 
And  you  saw  Luther  ? 

Fest.  'T  is  a  wondrous  soul ! 

Par.  True  :  the  so-heavy  chain  which  galled  mankind 
Is  shattered,  and  the  noblest  of  us  all 
Must  bow  to  the  deliverer  —  nay,  the  worker 
Of  our  own  project  —  we  who  long  before 
Had  burst  our  trammels  but  forgot  the  crowd. 
We  should  have  taught,  still  groaned  beneath  the  load : 
This  he  has  done  and  nobly.      Speed  that  may ! 
Whatever  be  my  chance  or  my  mischance, 
What  benefits  mankind  must  glad  me  too  : 
And  men  seem  made,  though  not  as  I  believed, 
For  something  better  than  the  times  produce. 


84  PARACELSUS 

Witness  these  gangs  of  peasants  your  new  lights 
From  Suabia  have  possessed,  whom  Miuizer  leads, 
And  whom  the  duke,  the  landgrave  and  the  elector 
Will  calm  in  blood  !     Well,  well ;   't  is  not  my  world  ! 

Fest.  Hark  ! 

Par.  'T  is  the  melancholy  wind  astir 

Within  the  trees ;  the  embers  too  are  gray  : 
Morn  must  be  near. 

Fest.  Best  ope  the  casement :  see, 

The  night,  late  strewn  with  clouds  and  flying  stars, 
Is  blank  and  motionless  :  how  peaceful  sleep 
The  tree-tops  altogether !      Like  an  asp, 
The  wind  slips  whispering  from  bough  to  bough. 

Par.  Ay  ;  you  would  gaze  on  a  wind-shaken  tree 
By  the  hour,  nor  count  time  lost. 

Fest.  So  you  shall  gaze  : 

Those  hajDpy  times  will  come  again. 

Par.  Gone,  gone. 

Those  pleasant  times  !     Does  not  the  moaning  wind 
Seem  to  bewail  that  we  have  gained  such  gains 
And  bartered  sleep  for  them  ? 

P'est.  It  is  our  trust 

That  there  is  yet  another  world  to  mend 
All  error  and  mischance. 

Par.  Another  world  I 

And  why  this  world,  this  common  world,  to  be 
A  make-shift,  a  mere  foil,  how  fair  soever. 
To  some  fine  life  to  come  ?     Man  must  be  fed 
With  angels'  food,  forsooth  ;  and  some  few  traces 
Of  a  diviner  nature  which  look  out 
Through  his  corporeal  baseness,  warrant  him 
In  a  supreme  contempt  of  all  provision 
For  his  inferior  tastes  —  some  straggling  marks 
Which  constitute  his  essence,  just  as  truly 
As  here  and  there  a  gem  would  constitute 
The  rock,  their  barren  bed.  one  diamond. 
But  were  it  so  —  were  man  all  mind  —  he  gains 
A  station  little  enviable.     From  God 
Down  to  the  lowest  spirit  ministrant, 
Intelligence  exists  which  casts  our  mind 
Into  immeasurable  shade.     No,  no  : 
Love,  hope,  fear,  faith  —  these  make  humanity ; 
These  are  its  sign  and  note  and  character. 
And  these  I  have  lost !  —  gone,  shut  from  me  forever, 
Like  a  dead  friend  safe  from  unkindness  more  ! 
See,  morn  at  length.     The  heavy  darkness  seems 


PARACELSUS  85 

Diluted  ;  gray  and  clear  without  the  stars  ; 

The  shrubs  bestir  and  rouse  themselves,  as  if 

Some  snake,  that  weighed  them  down  all  night,  let  go 

His  hold  ;  and  from  the  East,  fuller  and  fuller 

Day,  like  a  mighty  river,  flowing  in  ; 

But  clouded,  wintry,  desolate  and  cold. 

Yet  see  how  that  broad  prickly  star-shaped  plant, 

Half-clown  in  the  crevice,  spreads  its  woolly  leaves 

All  thick  and  glistering  with  diamond  dew. 

And  you  depart  for  Einsiedeln  this  day. 

And  we  have  spent  all  night  in  talk  like  this ! 

If  you  would  have  me  better  for  your  love, 

Revert  no  more  to  these  sad  themes. 

Fest.  One  favor, 

And  I  have  done.     I  leave  you,  deeply  moved  ; 
Unwilling  to  have  fared  so  well,  the  while 
My  friend  has  changed  so  sorely.     If  this  mood 
Shall  pass  away,  if  light  once  more  arise 
Where  all  is  darkness  now,  if  you  see  fit 
To  hope  and  trust  again,  and  strive  again, 
You  will  remember  —  not  our  love  alone  — 
But  that  my  faith  in  God's  desire  that  man 
Should  trust  on  his  support,  (as  I  must  think 
You  trusted)  is  obscured  and  dim  through  you ; 
For  you  are  thus,  and  this  is  no  reward. 
Will  you  not  call  me  to  your  side,  dear  Aureole  ? 


IV.    PARACELSUS  ASPIRES. 

Scene,  Colmar  in  Alsatia  ;  an  Inn.     1528. 

Paracelsus,  Eestus. 

Par.  {to  Johannes  Oporinus,  his  secretary).    Sic  itur 
ad  astra  /     Dear  Von  Visenburg 
Is  scandalized,  and  poor  Torinus  paralyzed. 
And  every  honest  soul  that  Basel  holds 
Aghast ;  and  yet  we  live,  as  one  may  say, 
Just  as  though  Liechtenfels  had  never  set 
So  true  a  value  on  his  sorry  carcass. 
And  learned  Putter  had  not  frowned  us  dumb. 
We  live  ;  and  shall  as  surely  start  to-morrow 
For  Nuremberg,  as  we  drink  speedy  scathe 
To  Basel  in  this  mantling  wine,  suffused 


8G  PARACELSUS 

A  delicate  blush,  no  fainter  tinge  is  born 
I'  the  shut  heart  of  a  bud.     Pledge  me,  good  John  — 
"  Basel  ;   a  hot  plague  ravage  it,  and  Piltter 
OpiDose  the  plague  !  "     Even  so  !     Do  you  too  share 
Their  panic,  the  reptiles  ?     Ha,  ha  ;  faint  through  these, 
Desist  for  these  !     They  manage  matters  so 
At  Basel,  't  is  like  :  but  others  may  find  means 
To  bring  the  stoutest  braggart  of  the  tribe 
Once  more  to  crouch  in  silence  —  means  to  breed 
A  stupid  wonder  in  each  fool  again. 
Now  big  with  admiration  at  the  skill 
Which  stript  a  vain  pretender  of  his  plumes  ; 
And,  that  done,  —  means  to  brand  each  slavish  brow 
So  deeply,  surely,  ineffaceably. 
That  henceforth  flatteiy  shall  not  pucker  it 
Out  of  the  furrow  ;  there  that  stamp  shall  stay 
To  show  the  next  they  fawn  on,  what  they  are, 
This  Basel  with  its  magnates,  —  fill  my  cu}),  — 
Whom  I  curse  soul  and  limb.     And  now  dispatch, 
Dispatch,  my  trusty  John ;  and  what  remains 
To  do,  whate'er  arrangements  for  our  trip 
Are  yet  to  be  completed,  see  you  hasten 
This  night ;  we  '11  weather  the  storm  at  least :  to-morrow 
For  Nuremberg  I      Now  leave  us  ;  this  grave  clerk 
Has  divers  weighty  matters  for  my  ear  : 

[Oporinus  goes  out. 
And  spare  my  lungs.     At  last,  my  gallant  Festus, 
I  am  rid  of  this  arch-knave  that  dogs  my  heels 
As  a  gaunt  crow  a  gasping  sheep  ;  at  last 
May  give  a  loose  to  my  delight.      How  kind, 
How  very  kind,  my  first  best  only  friend  ! 
Why,  this  looks  like  fidelity.     Embrace  me  ! 
Not  a  hair  silvered  yet  ?      Right !  you  shall  live 
Till  I  am  worth  your  love  ;  you  shall  be  proud, 
And  I  —  but  let  time  show.     Did  you  not  wonder  ? 
I  sent  to  you  because  our  compact  Aveighed 
Upon  my  conscience  —  (you  recall  the  night 
At  Basel,  which  the  gods  confound  !)  —  because 
Once  more  I  aspire.     I  call  you  to  my  side  ; 
You  come.     You  thought  my  message  strange  ? 

Fest.  So  strange 

That  I  must  hope,  indeed,  your  messenger 
Has  mingled  his  own  fancies  with  the  words 
Purporting  to  be  yours. 

Par.  He  said  no  more, 

'T  is  probable,  than  the  precious  folks  1  leave 


PARACELSUS  87 

Said  fiftyfold  more  roughly.     Well-a-day, 

'T  is  true  !  poor  Paracelsus  is  exi)osed 

At  last  ;  a  most  egregious  quack  he  proves  ! 

And  those  he  overreached  must  spit  their  hate 

On  one  who,  utterly  beneath  contempt, 

Could  yet  deceive  their  toi)ping  wits.     You  heard 

Bare  truth  ;  and  at  my  bidding  you  come  here 

To  speed  me  on  my  enter})rise,  as  once 

Your  lavish  wishes  sped  me,  my  own  friend  ! 

Fest.  What  is  your  purj^ose,  Aureole  ? 

Par.  Oh,  for  purpose, 

There  is  no  lack  of  j^recedents  in  a  case 
Like  mine  ;  at  least,  if  not  precisely  mine. 
The  case  of  men  cast  off  by  those  they  sought 
To  benefit. 

Fest.  They  really  cast  you  off  ? 

I  only  heard  a  vague  tale  of  some  priest, 
Cured  by  your  skill,  who  wrangled  at  your  claim 
Knowing  his  life's  worth  best ;  and  how  the  judge 
The  matter  was  referred  to,  saw  no  cause 
To  interfere,  nor  you  to  hide  your  full 
Contempt  of  him  ;  nor  he,  again,  to  smother 
His  wrath  thereat,  which  raised  so  fierce  a  flame 
That  Basel  soon  was  made  no  place  for  you. 

Par.  The  affair  of  Liechtenfels  ?  the  shallowest  fable, 
The  last  and  silliest  outrage  ^-  mere  pretence  ! 
I  knew  it,  I  foretold  it  from  the  first. 
How  soon  the  stupid  wonder  you  mistook 
For  genuine  loyalty  —  a  cheering  promise 
Of  better  things  to  come  —  would  pall  and  pass  ; 
And  every  word  comes  true.     Saul  is  among 
The  prophets  !     Just  so  long  as  I  was  pleased 
To  play  off  the  mere  antics  of  my  art, 
Fantastic  gambols  leading  to  no  end, 
I  got  huge  praise  :  but  one  can  ne'er  keep  down 
Our  foolish  nature's  weakness.     There  they  flocked, 
Poor  devils,  jostling,  swearing  and  ])erspiring, 
Till  the  walls  rang  again  ;  and  all  for  me  ! 
I  had  a  kindness  for  them,  which  was  right ; 
But  then  I  stopped  not  till  I  tacked  to  that 
A  trust  in  them  and  a  respect  —  a  sort 
Of  sympathy  for  them  ;  I  must  needs  begin 
To  teach  them,  not  amaze  them,  "to  impart 
The  spirit  which  should  instigate  the  search 
Of  truth,"  just  what  you  bade  me  I     I  spoke  out. 
Forthwith  a  mighty  squadron,  in  disgust, 


88  PARACELSUS 

Filed  off  —  "  the  sifted  chaff  of  the  sack,"  I  said, 

Redoubling  my  endeavors  to  secure 

The  rest.     When  lo  !   one  man  had  tarried  so  long 

Only  to  ascertain  if  I  supported 

This  tenet  of  his,  or  that ;  another  loved 

To  hear  impartially  before  he  judged, 

And  having  heard,  now  judged ;  this  bland  disciple 

Passed  for  my  dupe,  but  all  along,  it  seems. 

Spied  error  where  his  neighbors  marvelled  most ; 

That  fiery  doctor  who  had  hailed  me  friend. 

Did  it  because  my  by-paths,  once  i)roved  wrong 

And  beaconed  projDerly,  would  commend  again 

The  good  old  ways  our  sires  jogged  safely  o'er, 

Though  not  their  squeamish  sons  ;  the  other  worthy 

Discovered  divers  verses  of  St.  John, 

Which,  read  successively,  refreshed  the  soul, 

But,  muttered  backwards,  cured  the  gout,  the  stone, 

The  colic  and  what  not.      Quid  multa  ?     The  end 

Was  a  clear  class-room,  and  a  quiet  leer 

From  grave  folk,  and  a  sour  re2)roachful  glance 

From  those  in  chief  who,  caj)  in  hand,  installed 

The  new  professor  scarce  a  year  before  ; 

And  a  vast  flourish  about  patient  merit 

Obscured  awhile  by  flashy  tricks,  but  sure 

Sooner  or  later  to  emerge  in  splendor  — 

Of  which  the  example  was  some  luckless  wight 

Whom  my  arrival  had  discomfited. 

But  now,  it  seems,  the  general  voice  recalled 

To  fill  my  chair  and  so  efface  the  stain 

Basel  had  long  incurred.     I  sought  no  better, 

Only  a  quiet  dismissal  from  my  post, 

And  from  my  heart  I  wished  them  better  suited 

And  better  served.     Good  night  to  Basel,  then ! 

But  fast  as  I  proposed  to  rid  the  tribe 

Of  my  obnoxious  back,  I  could  not  spare  them 

The  pleasure  of  a  parting  kick. 

Fest.  You  smile  : 

Despise  them  as  they  merit ! 

Par.  If  I  smile, 

'T  is  with  as  very  contempt  as  ever  turned 
Flesh  into  stone.     This  courteous  recompense, 
This  grateful  .  .  .  Festus,  were  your  nature  fit 
To  be  defiled,  your  eyes  the  eyes  to  ache 
At  gangrene-blotches,  eating  poison-blains, 
Tlie  ulcerous  barky  scurf  of  leprosy 
Wliich  finds —  a  man,  and  leaves  —  a  liideous  thing 


PARACELSUS  89 

That  cannot  but  be  mended  by  hell-fire, 

—  I  would  lay  bare  to  you  the  human  heart 

Which  God  cursed  long  ago,  and  devils  make  since 

Their  pet  nest  and  their  never-tiring  home. 

Oh,  sages  have  discovered  we  are  born 

For  various  ends  —  to  love,  to  know  :  has  ever 

One  stumbled,  in  his  search,  on  any  signs 

Of  a  nature  in  us  formed  to  hate  ?     To  hate  ? 

If  that  be  our  true  object  which  evokes 

Our  powers  in  fullest  strength,  be  sure  't  is  hate  ! 

Yet  men  have  doubted  if  the  best  and  bravest 

Of  spirits  can  nourish  him  with  hate  alone. 

I  had  not  the  monopoly  of  fools. 

It  seems,  at  Basel. 

Fest.  But  your  plans,  your  plans  ! 

I  have  yet  to  learn  your  purpose.  Aureole  ! 

Par.   Whether  to  sink  beneath  such  ponderous  shame, 
To  shrink  up  like  a  crushed  snail,  undergo 
In  silence  and  desist  from  further  toil 
And  so  subside  into  a  monument 
Of  one  their  censure  blasted  ?   or  to  bow 
Cheerfully  as  submissively,  to  lower 
My  old  pretensions  even  as  Basel  dictates, 
To  drop  into  the  rank  her  wits  assign  me 
And  live  as  they  prescribe,  and  make  that  use 
Of  my  poor  knowledge  which  their  rules  allow, 
Proud  to  be  patted  now  and  then,  and  careful 
To  practise  the  true  posture  for  receiving 
The  amplest  benefit  from  their  hoofs'  appliance 
When  they  shall  condescend  to  tutor  me  ? 
Then,  one  may  feel  resentment  like  a  flame 
Within,  and  deck  false  systems  in  truth's  garb. 
And  tangle  and  entwine  mankind  with  error, 
And  give  them  darkness  for  a  dower  and  falsehood 
For  a  possession,  ages  :  or  one  may  mope 
Into  a  shade  through  thinking,  or  else  drowse 
Into  a  dreamless  sleep  and  so  die  off. 
But  I,  —  now  Festus  shall  divine  !  —  but  I 
Am  merely  setting  out  once  more,  embracing 
My  earliest  aims  again  !     AVhat  thinl^s  he  now  ? 

Fest.  Your  aims  ?  the    aims  ?  —  to  Know  ?    and  where 
is  found 
The  early  trust  .  .   . 

Par.  Nay,  not  so  fast ;  I  say, 

The  aims  —  not  the  old  means.     You  know  they  made  me 
A  laughing-stock  ;  I  was  a  fool ;  you  know 


90  PARACELSUS 

The  when  and  the  how  :  hardly  those  means  again  ! 
Not  but  they  had  their  beauty ;  who  should  know 
Their  passing  beauty,  if  not  I  ?      Still,  dreams 
They  were,  so  let  them  vanish,  yet  in  beauty 
If  that  may  be.     Stay  :  thus  they  pass  in  song  ! 


[He  sings. 


Heap  cassia,  sandal-buds  and  stripes 

Of  labdanum,  and  aloe-balls, 
Smeared  with  dull  nard  an  Indian  wipes 
From  out  her  hair  :  such  balsam  falls 
Down  sea-side  mountain  pedestals, 
From  tree-tops  where  tired  winds  are  fain, 
Spent  with  the  vast  and  howling  main, 
To  treasure  half  their  island-srain. 


&" 


And  strew  faint  sweetness  from  some  old 

Egyptian's  fine  w^orm-eaten  shroud 
Which  breaks  to  dust  when  once  unrolled  ; 
Or  shredded  perfume,  like  a  cloud 
From  closet  long  to  quiet  vowed. 
With  mothed  and  dropping  arras  hung, 
Mouldering  her  lute  and  books  among. 
As  when  a  queen,  long  dead,  was  young. 

Mine,  every  word  I     And  on  such  pile  shall  die 
My  lovely  fancies,  with  fair  perished  things, 
Themselves  fair  and  forgotten  ;  yes,  forgotten. 
Or  why  abjure  them  ?     So,  I  made  this  rhyme 
That  fitting  dignity  might  be  preserved  ; 
No  little  proud  was  I ;  though  the  list  of  drugs 
Smacks  of  my  old  vocation,  and  the  verse 
Halts  like  the  best  of  Luther's  jDsalms. 

Fest.  But,  Aureole, 

Talk  not  thus  wildly  and  madly.     I  am  here  — 
Did  you  know  all !     I  have  travelled  far,  indeed, 
To  learn  your  wishes.     Be  yourself  again  ! 
For  in  this  mood  I  recognize  you  less 
Than  in  the  horrible  despondency 
I  witnessed  last.     You  may  account  this,  joy  ; 
But  rather  let  me  gaze  on  that  despair 
Than  hear  these  incoherent  words  and  see 
This  flushed  cheek  and  intensely-sparkling  eye. 

Par.    Why,  man,  I  was  light-hearted  in  my  prime, 
I  am  light-hearted  now  ;   what  would  you  have  ? 
Aprile  was  a  poet.  I  make  songs  — 


PARACELSUS  91 

'T  is  the  very  augury  of  success  I  want  I 
Why  should  I  not  he  joyous  now  as  then  ? 

Fest.    Joyous  !   and  how  ?  and  what  remains  for  joy  ? 
You  have  declared  the  ends  (whicli  I  am  sick 
Of  naming)  are  impracticable. 

Far.  Ay, 

Pursued  as  I  pursued  them  —  the  arch-fool ! 
Listen  :  my  plan  will  please  you  not,  't  is  like, 
But  you  are  little  versed  in  the  world's  ways. 
This  is  my  plan  —  (first  drinking  its  good  luck)  — 
I  will  accept  all  helps  ;  all  I  despised 
So  rashly  at  the  outset,  equally 
With  early  impulses,  late  years  have  quenched  : 
I  have  tried  each  way  singly  :  now  for  both  ! 
All  helps  !   no  one  sort  shall  exclude  the  rest. 
I  seek  to  know  and  to  enjoy  at  once. 
Not  one  without  the  other  as  before. 
Supi)ose  my  labor  should  seem  God's  own  cause 
Once  more,  as  first  I  dreamed,  —  it  shall  not  balk  me 
Of  the  meanest  earthliest  sensualest  delight 
That  may  be  snatched ;  for  every  joy  is  gain. 
And  gain  is  gain,  however  small.     My  soul 
Can  die  then,  nor  be  taunted  —  "  what  was  gained  ?  " 
Nor,  on  the  other  hand,  should  jDleasure  follow 
As  though  I  had  not  spurned  her  hitherto, 
Shall  she  o'ercloud  my  spirit's  rapt  communion 
With  the  tumultuous  past,  the  teeming  future, 
Glorious  with  visions  of  a  full  success. 

Fest.  Success ! 

Par.  And  wherefore  not  ?     Why  not  jDrefer 

Results  obtained  in  my  best  state  of  being, 
To  those  derived  alone  from  seasons  dark 
As  the  thoughts  they  bred  ?     When  I  was  best,  my  youth 
Unvvasted,  seemed  success  not  surest  too  "^ 
It  is  the  nature  of  darkness  to  obscure. 
I  am  a  wanderer  :  I  remember  well 
One  journey,  how  I  feared  the  track  was  missed, 
So  long  the  city  I  desired  to  reach 
Lay  hid  ;  when  suddenly  its  spires  afar 
Flashed  through  the  circling  clouds  ;  you  may  conceive 
IMy  transport.     Soon  the  vapors  closed  again, 
But  I  had  seen  the  city,  and  one  such  glance 
No  darkness  could  obscure :  nor  shall  the  present  — 
A  few  dull  hours,  a  passing" shame  or  two, 
Destroy  the  vivid  memories  of  the  i)ast. 
I  will  fight  the  battle  out ;  a  little  spent 


92  PARACELSUS 

PerhajDS,  but  still  an  able  combatant. 

You  look  at  my  gray  hair  and  furrowed  brow  ? 

But  I  can  turn  even  weakness  to  account : 

Of  many  tricks  I  know,  't  is  not  the  least 

To  push  the  ruins  of  my  frame,  whereon 

The  fire  of  vigor  trembles  scarce  alive, 

Into  a  heap,  and  send  the  flame  aloft. 

What  should  I  do  with  age  ?     So,  sickness  lends 

An  aid ;  it  being,  I  fear,  the  source  of  all 

We  boast  of  :  mind  is  nothing  but  disease, 

And  natural  health  is  ignorance. 

Fest.  I  see 

But  one  good  symptom  in  this  notable  scheme. 
I  feared  your  sudden  journey  had  in  view 
To  wreak  immediate  vengeance  on  your  foes  ; 
'T  is  not  so  :  I  am  glad. 

Par.  And  if  I  jolease 

To  spit  on  them,  to  trample  them,  what  then  ? 
'T  is  sorry  warfare  truly,  but  the  fools 
Provoke  it.     I  would  spare  their  self-conceit, 
But  if  they  must  provoke  me,  cannot  suffer 
Forbearance  on  my  part,  if  I  may  keejj 
No  quality  in  the  shade,  must  needs  put  forth 
Power  to  match  power,  my  strength  against  their  strength, 
And  teach  them  their  own  game  with  their  own  arms  — 
Why,  be  it  so  and  let  them  take  their  chance  ! 
I  am  above  them  like  a  god,  there  's  no 
Hidhig  the  fact :  what  idle  scruples,  then, 
Were  those  that  ever  bade  me  soften  it, 
Communicate  it  gently  to  the  world. 
Instead  of  proving  my  supremacy, 
Taking  my  natural  station  o'er  their  head, 
Then  owning  all  the  glory  was  a  man's  ! 
—  And  in  my  elevation  man's  would  be. 
But  live  and  learn,  though  life  's  short,  learning,  hard  ! 
And  therefore,  though  the  wreck  of  my  past  self, 
I  fear,  dear  Putter,  that  your  lecture-room 
Must  wait  awhile  for  its  best  ornament. 
The  penitent  empiric,  who  set  up 
For  somebody,  but  soon  was  taught  his  place  ; 
Now,  but  too  happy  to  be  let  confess 
His  error,  snuff  the  candles,  and  illustrate 
{Fiat  experlentia  corpore  vill) 
Your  medicine's  soundness  in  his  person.     Wait, 
Good  Putter ! 

Fest.  He  who  sneers  thus,  is  a  god  ! 


PARACELSUS  93 

Par.  Ay,  ay,  laugh  at  me  !     I  am  very  glad 
You  are  not  gulled  by  all  this  swaggering ;  you 
Can  see  the  root  of  the  matter !  —  how  I  strive 
To  put  a  good  face  on  the  overthrow 
I  have  experienced,  and  to  bury  and  hide 
My  degradation  in  its  length  and  breadth  ; 
How  the  mean  motives  I  would  make  you  think 
Just  mingle  as  is  due  with  nobler  aims, 
The  appetites  I  modestly  allow 
May  influence  me  as  being  mortal  stiU  — 
Do  goad  me,  drive  me  on,  and  fast  suj^plant 
My  youth's  desires.     You  are  no  stupid  dupe : 
You  find  me  out !      Yes,  I  had  sent  for  you 
To  palm  these  childish  lies  upon  you,  Festus ! 
Laugh  —  you  shall  laugh  at  me  I 

Fest.  The  past,  then,  Aureole, 

Proves  nothing  ?     Is  our  interchange  of  love 
Yet  to  begin  ?     Have  I  to  swear  I  mean 
No  flattery  in  this  speech  or  that?     For  you, 
Whate'er  you  say,  there  is  no  degradation ; 
These  low  thoughts  are  no  inmates  of  your  mind, 
Or  wherefore  this  disorder  ?     You  are  vexed 
As  much  by  the  intrusion  of  base  views. 
Familiar  to  your  adversaries,  as  they 
Were  troubled  should  your  qualities  alight 
Amid  their  murky  souls  ;  not  otherwise, 
A  stray  wolf  which  the  winter  forces  down 
From  our  bleak  hills,  suffices  to  affright 
A  village  in  the  vales  —  while  foresters 
Sleep  calm,  though  all  night  long  the  famished  troop 
Snuff  round  and  scratch  against  their  crazy  huts. 
These  evil  thoughts  are  monsters,  and  will  flee. 

Par,  May  you  be  happy,  Festus,  my  own  friend  ! 

Fest.  Nay,  further ;  the  delights  you  fain  would  think 
The  superseders  of  your  nobler  aims. 
Though  ordinary  and  harmless  stimulants. 
Will  ne'er  content  you.  .   .   . 

Par.  Hush  !  I  once  despised  them, 

But  that  soon  passes.     We  are  high  at  first 
In  our  demand,  nor  will  abate  a  jot 
Of  toil's  strict  value  ;  but  time  passes  o'er. 
And  humbler  spirits  accept  what  we  refuse  : 
In  short,  when  some  such  comfort  is  doled  out 
As  these  delights,  we  cannot  long  retain 
Bitter  contem})t  which  urges  us  at  first 
To  hurl  it  back,  but  hug  it  to  our  breast 


94  PARACELSUS 

And  thankfully  retire.     This  life  of  mine 

Must  be  lived  out  and  a  grave  thoroughly  earned  : 

I  am  just  fit  for  that  and  nought  beside. 

I  told  you  once,  I  cannot  now  enjoy, 

Unless  I  deem  my  knowledge  gains  through  joy ; 

Nor  can  I  know,  but  straight  warm  tears  reveal 

My  need  of  linking  also  joy  to  knowledge : 

So,  on  I  drive,  enjoying  all  I  can, 

And  knowing  all  1  can.     I  speak,  of  course, 

Confusedly  ;  this  will  better  explain  —  feel  here  ! 

Quick  beating,  is  it  not  ?  —  a  fire  of  the  heart 

To  work  off  some  way,  this  as  well  as  any. 

So,  Festus  sees  me  fairly  launched  ;  his  calm 

Compassionate  look  might  have  disturbed  me  once, 

But  now,  far  from  rejecting,  I  invite 

What  bids  me  press  the  closer,  lay  myself 

Open  before  him,  and  be  soothed  with  pity  ; 

I  hope,  if  he  command  hope,  and  believe 

As  he  directs  me  —  satiating  myself 

With  his  enduring  love.     And  Festus  quits  me 

To  give  place  to  some  credulous  disciple 

Who  holds  that  God  is  wise,  but  Paracelsus 

Has  his  peculiar  merits  :  I  suck  in 

That  homage,  chuckle  o'er  that  admiration, 

And  then  dismiss  the  fool ;  for  night  is  come. 

And  I  betake  myself  to  study  again. 

Till  patient  searchings  after  hidden  lore 

Half  wring  some  bright  truth  from  its  prison  ;  my  frame 

Trembles,  my  forehead's  veins  swell  out,  my  hair 

Tingles  for  triumph.     Slow  and  sure  the  morn 

Shall  break  on  my  jDent  room  and  dwindling  lamp 

And  furnace  dead,  and  scattered  earths  and  ores  ; 

When,  with  a  failing  heart  and  throbbing  brow, 

I  nuist  review  my  captured  ti'uth,  sum  up 

Its  value,  trace  what  ends  to  what  begins, 

Its  present  power  with  its  eventual  bearings, 

Latent  affinities,  the  views  it  opens. 

And  its  full  length  in  perfecting  my  scheme. 

I  view  it  sternly  circumscribed,  cast  down 

From  the  high  place  my  fond  hopes  yielded  it. 

Proved  wortldess  —  which,  in  getting,  yet  had  cost 

Another  wrench  to  this  fast-fallino-  frame. 

Then,  quick,  the  cup  to  quaff,  that  chases  sorrow  ! 

I  lapse  back  into  youth,  and  take  again 

My  fluttering  pulse  for  evidence  that  God 

Means  good  to  me,  will  make  my  cause  his  own. 


PARACELSUS  95 

See  !     I  have  cast  off  this  remorseless  care 

Wliich  clogged  a  spirit  born  to  soar  so  free, 

And  my  dim  chamber  has  become  a  tent, 

Festus  is  sitting  by  me,  and  his  Michal  .  .  . 

Why  do  you  start  ?     I  say,  she  listening  here, 

(For  yonder  —  AViirzburg  through  the  orchard-bough  !) 

Motions  as  though  such  ardent  words  should  find 

No  echo  in  a  maiden's  quiet  soul. 

But  her  pure  bosom  heaves,  her  eyes  fill  fast 

With  tears,  her  sweet  lips  tremble  all  the  while  ! 

Ha,  ha ! 

Fest.     It  seems,  then,  you  expect  to  reap 
No  unreal  joy  from  this  your  present  course, 
But  rather  .   .  . 

Par.  Death  !     To  die  !     I  owe  that  much 

To  what,  at  least,  I  was.     I  should  be  sad 
To  live  contented  after  such  a  fall. 
To  tlrrive  and  fatten  after  such  reverse  ! 
The  whole  plan  is  a  makeshift,  but  will  last 
My  time. 

Fest.         And  you  have  never  mused  and  said, 
'  I  had  a  noble  purpose,  and  the  strength 
To  compass  it ;  but  I  have  stopped  half-way, 
And  wrongly  given  the  first-fruits  of  my  toil 
To  objects  little  worthy  of  the  gift. 
Why  linger  round  them  still  ?  why  clench  my  fault  ? 
Why  seek  for  consolation  in  defeat. 
In  vain  endeavors  to  derive  a  beauty 
From  ugliness  ?  why  seek  to  make  the  most 
Of  what  no  power  can  change,  nor  strive  instead 
With  mighty  effort  to  redeem  the  past 
And,  gathering  up  the  treasures  thus  cast  down, 
To  hold  a  steadfast  course  till  I  arrive 
At  their  fit  destination  and  my  own  ?  " 
You  have  never  pondered  thus  ? 

Far.  Have  I,  you  ask  ? 

Often  at  midnight,  when  most  fancies  come, 
Would  some  such  airy  project  visit  me  : 
But  ever  at  the  end  ...  or  will  you  hear 
The  same  thing  in  a  tale,  a  parable  ? 
You  and  I,  wandering  over  the  world  wide. 
Chance  to  set  foot  upon  a  desert  coast. 
Just  as  we  cry,  "  No  human  voice  before 
Broke  the  inveterate  silence  of  these  rocks !  " 
—  Their  querulous  echo  startles  us  ;  we  turn : 
What  ravacired  structure  still  looks  o'er  the  sea  ? 


96  PARACELSUS 

Some  characters  remain,  too !     While  we  read, 
The  sharp  salt  wind,  imi:)atient  for  the  last 
Of  even  this  record,  wistfully  comes  and  goes, 
Or  sings  what  we  recover,  mocking  it. 
This  is  the  record ;  and  my  voice,  the  wind's. 

[He  sings. 

Over  the  sea  our  galleys  went, 
With  cleaving  prows  in  order  brave, 
To  a  speeding  wind  and  a  bounding  wave, 

A  gallant  armament : 
Each  bark  built  out  of  a  forest-tree. 

Left  leafy  and  rough  as  first  it  grew, 
And  nailed  all  over  the  gaping  sides, 
Within  and  without,  with  black  bull-hides, 
Seethed  in  fat  and  suppled  in  flame, 
To  bear  the  playful  billows'  game  : 
So,  each  good  ship  was  rude  to  see, 
Rude  and  bare  to  the  outward  view, 

But  each  upbore  a  stately  tent 
Where  cedar  pales  in  scented  row 
Kept  out  the  flakes  of  the  dancing  brine, 
And  an  awning  drooped  the  mast  below, 
In  fold  on  fold  of  the  purj^le  fine, 
That  neither  noontide  nor  starshine 
Nor  moonlight  cold  which  maketh  mad. 

Might  pierce  the  regal  tenement. 
When  the  sun  dawned,  oh,  gay  and  glad 
We  set  the  sail  and  plied  the  oar ; 
But  when  the  night-wind  blew  like  breath. 
For  joy  of  one  day's  voyage  more. 
We  sang  together  on  the  wide  sea, 
Like  men  at  peace  on  a  peaceful  shore ; 
Each  sail  was  loosed  to  the  wind  so  free, 
Each  helm  made  sure  by  the  twilight  star. 
And  in  a  sleep  as  calm  as  death, 
We,  the  voyagers  from  afar. 

Lay  stretched  along,  each  weary  crew 
In  a  circle  round  its  wondrous  tent 
Whence  gleamed  soft  light  and  curled  rich  scent, 

And  with  light  and  perfume,  music  too  : 
So  the  stars  wheeled  round,  and  the  darkness  past, 
And  at  morn  we  started  beside  the  mast. 
And  still  each  ship  was  sailing  fast. 

Now,  one  morn,  land  appeared  —  a  speck 
Dim  trembling  betwixt  sea  and  sky  : 


PARACELSUS  97 

"  Avoid  It,"  cried  our  pilot,  "  check 

The  shout,  restrain  the  eager  eye  !  " 
But  the  heaving  sea  was  black  behind 
For  many  a  night  and  many  a  day. 
And  land,  though  but  a  rock,  drew  nigh ; 
So,  we  broke  the  cedar  pales  away. 
Let  the  purple  awning  flap  in  the  wind, 

And  a  statue  bright  was  on  every  deck ! 
We  shouted,  every  man  of  us, 
And  steered  right  into  the  harbor  thus, 
With  pomp  and  paean  glorious. 

A  hundred  shapes  of  lucid  stone ! 

All  day  we  built  its  shrine  for  each, 
A  shrine  of  rock  for  every  one, 
Nor  paused  till  in  the  westering  sun 

We  sat  together  on  the  beach 
To  sing  because  our  task  was  done. 
When  lo  !  what  shouts  and  merry  songs ! 
What  laughter  all  the  distance  stirs  ! 
A  loaded  raft  with  hajipy  throngs 
Of  gentle  islanders  ! 
"  Our  isles  are  just  at  hand,"  they  cried, 

"  Like  cloudlets  faint  in  even  sleeping ; 
Our  temple-gates  are  opened  wide. 

Our  olive-groves  thick  shade  are  keeping 
For  these  majestic  forms  "  —  they  cried. 
Oh,  then  we  awoke  with  sudden  start 
From  our  deep  dream,  and  knew,  too  late. 
How  bare  the  rock,  how  desolate  : 
Which  had  received  our  precious  freight : 

Yet  we  called  out  —  "  Depart ! 
Our  gifts,  once  given,  must  here  abide. 

Our  work  is  done  ;  we  have  no  heart 
To  mar  our  work,"  —  we  cried. 

Fest.  In  truth  ? 

Par.  N^y^  wait :  all  this  in  tracings  faint 

On  rugged  stones  strewn  here  and  there,  but  piled 
In  order  once  :  then  follows  —  mark  what  follows  ! 
"  The  sad  rhyme  of  the  men  who  proudly  clung 
To  their  first  fault,  and  withered  in  their  pride." 

P'est.  Come  back  then,  Aureole  ;  as  you  fear  God,  come  ! 
This  is  foul  sin  ;  come  back  I      Renounce  the  past, 
Forswear  the  future ;  look  for  joy  no  more, 
But  wait  death's  summons  amid  holy  sights, 


98  PARACELSUS 

And  trust  me  for  the  event  —  peace,  if  not  joy. 
Return  with  me  to  Einsiedeln,  dear  Aureole  ! 

Pa7\   No  way,  no  way  !   it  would  not  turn  to  good. 
A  spotless  child  sleeps  on  the  flowering  moss  — 
'T  is  well  for  him  ;  but  when  a  sinful  man, 
Envying  such  slumber,  may  desire  to  put 
His  guilt  away,  shall  he  return  at  once 
To  rest  by  lying  there  ?     Our  sires  knew  well 
(Spite  of  the  grave  discoveries  of  their  sons) 
The  fitting  course  for  such  ;  dark  cells,  dim  lamps, 
A  stone  floor  one  may  writhe  on  like  a  worm  : 
No  mossy  pillow  blue  with  violets  I 

Fest.  I  see  no  symptom  of  these  absolute 
And  tyrannous  passions.     You  are  calmer  now. 
This  verse-making  can  purge  you  well  enough 
Without  the  terrible  penance  you  describe. 
You  love  me  still :  the  lusts  you  fear  will  never 
Outrage  your  friend.     To  Einsiedeln,  once  more  ! 
Say  but  the  word  ! 

Par.  No,  no  ;  those  lusts  forbid  : 

They  crouch,  I  know,  cowering  with  half-shut  eye 
Beside  you  ;  't  is  their  nature.     Thrust  yourself 
Between  them  and  their  prey  ;  let  some  fool  style  me 
Or  king  or  quack,  it  matters  not,  and  try 
Your  wisdom,  urge  them  to  forego  their  treat ! 
No,  no ;  learn  better  and  look  deeper,  Festus  ! 
If  you  knew  how  a  devil  sneers  within  me 
While  you  are  talking  now  of  this,  now  that, 
As  though  we  differed  scarcely  save  in  trifles  ! 

Fest.  Do  we  so  differ  ?     True,  change  must  proceed, 
Whether  for  good  or  ill ;  keep  from  me,  which  ! 
Do  not  confide  all  secrets  :  I  was  born 
To  hope,  and  you  .  .   . 

Par.  To  trust :  you  know  the  fruits  J 

Fest.  Listen  :  I  do  believe,  wliat  you  call  trust 
Was  self-delusion  at  the  best :  for,  see ! 
So  long  as  God  would  kindly  pioneer 
A  path  for  you,  and  screen  you  from  the  world, 
Procure  you  full  exemption  from  man's  lot, 
Man's  common  hopes  and  fears,  on  the  mere  pretext 
Of  your  engagement  in  his  service  —  yield  you 
A  limitless  license,  make  you  God,  in  fact, 
And  turn  your  slave  —  you  were  content  to  say 
Most  courtly  praises  !      Wliat  is  it,  at  last, 
But  selfishness  without  example  ?     None 
Could  trace  God's  will  so  i:>lain  as  you,  while  yours 


PARACELSUS  99 

Remained  implied  in  it ;  but  now  you  fail, 
And  we,  who  prate  about  that  will,  are  fools ! 
In  short,  God's  service  is  established  here 
As  he  determines  fit,  and  not  your  way, 
And  this  you  cannot  brook.     Such  discontent 
Is  weak.      Renounce  all  creatureship  at  once  ! 
Affirm  an  absolute  riglit  to  have  and  use 
Your  energies  ;  as  though  the  rivers  should  say  — 
"  We  rush  to  the  ocean  ;  what  have  we  to  do 
With  feeding  streamlets,  lingering  in  the  vales, 
Sleeping  in  lazy  pools  ?  "     Set  up  that  plea, 
That  will  be  bold  at  least ! 

Par,  'Tis  like  enough. 

The  serviceable  spirits  are  those,  no  doubt, 
The  East  produces  :  lo,  the  master  nods. 
And  they  raise  terraces  and  garden-grounds 
In  one  night's  space  ;  and,  this  done,  straight  begin 
Another  century's  sleep,  to  the  great  praise 
Of  him  that  framed  them  wise  and  beautiful. 
Till  a  lamp's  rubbing,  or  some  chance  akin, 
Wake  them  again.     I  am  of  different  mould. 
I  would  have  soothed  my  lord,  and  slaved  for  him, 
And  done  him  service  past  my  narrow  bond. 
And  thus  I  get  rewarded  for  my  pains  ! 
Beside,  't  is  vain  to  talk  of  forwarding 
God's  glory  otherwise  ;  his  is  alone 
The  sphere  of  its  increase,  as  far  as  men 
Increase  it ;  why,  then,  look  beyond  this  sphere  ? 
We  are  his  glory ;  and  if  we  be  glorious, 
Is  not  the  thing  achieved  ? 

Fest.  Shall  one  like  me 

Judge  hearts  like  yours  ?     Though  years  have  changed  you 

much, 
And  you  have  left  your  first  love,  and  retain 
Its  empty  shade  to  veil  your  crooked  ways, 
Yet  I  still  hold  that  you  have  honored  God. 
And  who  shall  call  your  course  without  reward  ? 
For,  wherefore  this  repining  at  defeat 
Had  triumj)!!  ne'er  inured  you  to  high  hopes  ? 
I  urge  you  to  forsake  the  life  you  curse. 
And  what  success  attends  me  ?  —  simply  talk 
Of  passion,  weakness  and  remorse ;  in  short. 
Anything  but  the  naked  truth  —  you  choose 
This  so-despised  career,  and  cheaply  hold 
My  hapj^iness,  or  rather  other  men's. 
Once  more,  return  ! 


100  PARACELSUS 

Par.  And  quickly.     Oporinus 

Has  pilfered  half  my  secrets  by  tliis  time : 
And  we  depart  by  daybreak.     I  am  weary, 
I  know  not  how  ;  not  even  the  wine-cup  soothes 
My  brain  to-night  .   .   . 
Do  you  not  thoroughly  despise  me,  Festus  ? 
No  flattery  !     One  like  you  needs  not  be  told 
We  live  and  breathe  deceiving  and  deceived. 
Do  you  not  scorn  me  from  your  heart  of  hearts, 
Me  and  my  cant,  each  petty  subterfuge, 
My  rhymes  and  all  this  frothy  shower  of  words, 
My  glozing  self-deceit,  my  outward  crust 
Of  lies  which  wrap,  as  tetter,  morphew,  furfair 
WrajD  the  sound  flesh  ?  —  so,  see  you  flatter  not ! 
Even  God  flatters  :  but  my  friend,  at  least. 
Is  true.      I  would  depart,  secure  henceforth 
Against  all  further  insult,  hate  and  wrong 
From  puny  foes  ;  my  one  friend's  scorn  shall  brand  me 
No  fear  of  sinking  deeper  I 

Fest.  No.  dear  Aureole  ! 

No,  no  ;  I  came  to  counsel  faithfully. 
There  are  old  rules,  made  long  ere  we  were  born, 
By  which  I  judge  you.     I,  so  fallible, 
So  infinitely  low  beside  your  mighty 
Majestic  spirit !  —  even  I  can  see 
You  own  some  higher  law  than  ours  which  call 
Sin,  what  is  no  sin  —  weakness,  what  is  strength. 
But  I  have  only  these,  such  as  they  are. 
To  guide  me  ;  and  I  blame  you  where  they  bid, 
Only  so  long  as  blaming  promises 
To  win  peace  for  your  soul :  the  more,  that  sorrow 
Has  fallen  on  me  of  late,  and  they  have  helped  me 
So  that  I  faint  not  under  my  distress. 
But  wherefore  should  I  scruple  to  avow 
In  spite  of  all,  as  brother  judging  brother. 
Your  fate  to  me  is  most  inexplicable  ? 
And  should  you  perish  without  recompense 
And  satisfaction  yet  —  too  hastily 
I  have  relied  on  love  :  you  may  have  sinned, 
But  you  have  loved.     As  a  mere  human  matter  — > 
As  I  would  have  God  deal  with  fragile  men 
In  the  end  —  1  say  that  you  will  triumph  yet  ! 

Par.  Have  you  felt  sorrow,  Festns  ?  —  't  is  because 
You  love  me.     Sorrow,  and  sweet  Michal  yours  ! 
AVell  thought  on  :  never  let  her  know  this  last 
Dull  winding-up  of  all :   these  miscreants  dared 
Insult  me  —  me  she  loved  :  —  so,  grieve  her  not ! 


PAh'ACELSUS^  101 

Fesf.  Your  ill  success  can  little  grieve  her  now. 

Par.  Michal  is  dead  I  pr^y  Christ  we<^lo,  not  \;razo  : 

JP'est.  Aureole,  dear  Aureole,  look  Viot  'on  ine  thus  ! 
Fool,  fool!   this  is  the  heart  grown  sorrow-proof  — 
I  cannot  bear  those  eyes. 

far.  Nay,  really  dead  ? 

Fest,  'T  is  scarce  a  month. 

Pa7\  Stone  dead  !  —  then  you  have  laid  her 

Among  the  flowers  ere  this.     Now,  do  you  know, 
I  can  reveal  a  secret  which  shall  comfort 
Even  you.     I  have  no  julep,  as  men  think, 
To  cheat  the  grave  ;  but  a  far  better  secret. 
Know,  then,  you  did  not  ill  to  trust  your  love 
To  the  cold  earth  :  I  have  thought  much  of  it : 
For  I  believe  we  do  not  wholly  die. 

Fest.  Aureole ! 

Par.  Nay,  do  not  laugh  ;  there  is  a  reason 

For  wliat  I  say  :  I  think  the  soul  can  never 
Taste  death.     I  am,  just  now,  as  you  may  see. 
Very  unfit  to  put  so  strange  a  thought 
In  an  intelligible  dress  of  words  ; 
But  take  it  as  my  trust,  she  is  not  dead. 

Fest.  But  not  on  this  account  alone  ?  you  surely, 
—  Aureole,  you  have  believed  this  all  along? 

Par.  And  Michal  sleeps  among  the  roots  and  dews, 
While  I  am  moved  at  Basel,  and  full  of  schemes 
For  Nuremberg,  and  hoping  and  despairing, 
As  though  it  mattered  how  the  farce  plays  out, 
So  it  be  quickly  played.     Away,  away  ! 
Have  your  will,  rabble  !  while  we  fight  the  prize, 
Troop  you  in  safety  to  the  snug  back-seats 
And  leave  a  clear  arena  for  the  brave 
About  to  perish  for  your  sport !  —  Behold  ! 


V.    PARACELSUS  ATTAINS. 
Scene,  Salzburg  ;  a  cell  in  the  Hospital  of  St.  Sebastian.     1541. 
Festus,  Paracelsus. 

Fest.  No  change  !     The  weary  night  is  well-nigh  spent, 
The  lamp  burns  low,  and  through  the  casement-bars 
Gray  morning  glimmers  feebly  :  yet  no  change  ! 
Another  night,  and  still  no  sigh  has  stirred 


That  fallen  discolored  mouth,  no  pang  relit 


103.  c  PARACELSUS 

I'^hose  fixed  eyes,  quenched  by  the  decaying  body, 
^Lil^eiierch-ftaibe  choked  in  dust.     Wliile  all  beside 
*  Was'bi-efckin'g*  to'tiieiaist  they  held  out  bright. 

As  a  stronghold  where  life  intrenched  itself  ; 

Bat  they  are  dead  now  —  very  blind  and  dead : 

He  will  drowse  into  death  without  a  groan. 

My  Aureole  —  my  forgotten,  ruined  Aureole  ! 

The  days  are  gone,  are  gone  !     How  grand  thou  wast ! 

And  now  not  one  of  those  who  struck  thee  down  — 

Poor  glorious  spirit  —  concerns  him  even  to  stay 

And  satisfy  himself  his  little  hand 

Could  turn  God's  image  to  a  livid  thing. 

Another  night,  and  yet  no  change  !     'T  is  much 

That  I  should  sit  by  him,  and  bathe  his  brow. 

And  chafe  his  hands  ;  't  is  much :  but  he  will  sure 

Know  me,  and  look  on  me,  and  speak  to  me 

Once  more  —  but  only  once !     His  hollow  cheek 

Looked  all  night  long  as  though  a  creejjing  laugh 

At  his  own  state  were  just  about  to  break 

From  the  dying  man  :  my  brain  swam,  my  throat  swelled. 

And  yet  I  could  not  turn  away.     In  truth, 

They  told  me  how,  when  first  brought  here,  he  seemed 

Resolved  to  live,  to  lose  no  faculty ; 

Thus  striving  to  keep  up  his  shattered  strength, 

Until  they  bore  him  to  this  stifling  cell : 

When  straight  his  features  fell,  an  hour  made  white 

The  flushed  face,  and  relaxed  the  quivering  limb, 

Only  the  eye  remained  intense  awhile 

As  though  it  recognized  the  tomb-like  place. 

And  then  he  lay  as  here  he  lies. 

Ay,  here  ! 
Here  is  earth's  noblest,  nobly  garlanded  — 
Her  bravest  champion  with  his  well-won  prize  — 
Her  best  achievement,  her  sublime  amends 
For  countless  generations  fleeting  fast 
And  followed  by  no  trace  ;  —  the  creature-god 
She  instances  when  angels  would  dispute 
The  title  of  her  brood  to  rank  with  them. 
Angels,  this  is  our  angel !     Those  bright  forms 
We  clothe  with  purple,  crown  and  call  to  thrones. 
Are  human,  but  not  his  ;  those  are  but  men 
AVhom  other  men  press  round  and  kneel  before ; 
Those  palaces  are  dwelt  in  by  mankind; 
Higlier  provision  is  for  him  you  seek 
Amid  our  pomps  and  glories  :  see  it  here  ! 


PARACELSUS  103 

Behold  earth's  paragon  I     Now,  raise  thee,  clay  ! 

God  I     Thou  art  love  !     I  build  my  faith  on  that ! 

Even  as  1  watch  beside  thy  tortured  child 

Unconscious  whose  hot  tears  fall  fast  by  him. 

So  doth  thy  right  hand  guide  us  through  the  world 

AVherein  we  stumble.     God  !  what  shall  we  say  ? 

How  has  he  sinned  ?     How  else  should  he  have  done  ? 

Surely  he  sought  thy  praise  —  thy  pi-aise,  for  all 

He  might  be  busied  by  the  task  so  much 

As  half  forget  awhile  its  proper  end. 

Dost  thou  well,  Lord  ?     Thou  canst  not  but  jDrefer 

That  I  should  range  myself  upon  his  side  — 

How  could  he  stop  at  every  stej)  to  set 

Thy  glory  forth  ?     Hadst  thou  but  granted  him 

Success,  thy  honor  would  have  crowned  success, 

A  halo  round  a  star.     Or,  say  he  erred,  — 

Save  him,  dear  God  ;  it  will  be  like  thee  :  bathe  him 

In  light  and  life  I     Thou  art  not  made  like  us  ; 

We  should  be  wroth  in  such  a  case  ;  but  thou 

Forgivest  —  so,  forgive  these  passionate  thoughts 

"Which  come  unsought  and  will  not  pass  away  ! 

I  know  thee,  who  hast  kept  my  path,  and  made 

Light  for  me  in  the  darkness,  tempering  sorrow 

So  that  it  reached  me  like  a  solemn  joy  ; 

It  were  too  strange  that  I  should  doubt  thy  love. 

But  what  am  I  ?     Thou  madest  him  and  knowest 

How  he  was  fashioned.     I  could  never  err 

That  way  :  the  quiet  place  beside  thy  feet. 

Reserved  for  me,  was  ever  in  my  thoughts  : 

But  he  —  thou  shouldst  have  favored  him  as  well ! 

Ah  !  he  wakens  !     Aureole,  I  am  here  I   "tis  Festus  ! 

I  cast  away  all  wishes  save  one  wish  — 

Let  him  but  know  me,  only  speak  to  me  ! 

He  mutters  ;  louder  and  louder ;  any  other 

Than  I,  with  brain  less  laden,  could  collect 

What  he  pours  forth.     Dear  Aureole,  do  but  look ! 

Is  it  talking  or  singing,  this  he  utters  fast  ? 

Misery  that  he  should  fix  me  with  his  eye, 

Quick  taFicing  to  some  other  all  the  while  I 

If  he  would  luisband  tliis  wild  vehemence 

Which  frustrates  its  intent !  —  I  heard,  I  know 

I  heard  my  name  amid  those  rajud  words. 

Oh,  he  will  know  me  yet  I     Could  I  divert 

This  current,  lead  it  somehow  gently  back 

Into  the  channels  of  the  past  I  —  His  eye 

Brighter  than  ever !     It  must  recognize  me  ! 


104  PARACELSUS 

I  am  Erasmus  :    I  am  liere  to  pray 

That  Paracelsus  use  his  skill  for  me. 

The  schools  of  Paris  and  of  Padua  send 

These  questions  for  your  learning  to  resolve. 

We  are  your  students,  noble  master :  leave 

This  wretched  cell ;  what  business  have  you  here  ? 

Our  class  awaits  you  ;  come  to  us  once  more  ! 

(O  agony  I  the  utmost  I  can  do 

Touches  him  not ;  how  else  arrest  his  ear  ?) 

I  am  commissioned  ...  I  shall  craze  like  him. 

Better  be  mute  and  see  what  God  shall  send. 

Par.  Stay,  stay  with  me  ! 

Fest.  I  will ;  I  am  come  here 

To  stay  with  you  —  Festus,  you  loved  of  old  ; 
Festus,  you  know,  you  must  know  ! 

Par.  Festus!     Where's 

Aprile,  then  ?     Has  he  not  chanted  softly 
The  melodies  I  heard  all  night  ?     I  could  not 
Get  to  him  for  a  cold  hand  on  my  breast, 
But  I  made  out  his  music  well  enough, 

0  well  enough  !     If  they  have  filled  him  full 
With  magical  music,  as  they  freight  a  star 
With  light,  and  have  remitted  all  his  sin, 
They  will  forgive  me  too,  I  too  shall  know  ! 

Fest.  Festus,  your  Festus  ! 
Par.  Ask  him  if  Aprile 

Knows  as  he  Loves  —  if  I  shall  Love  and  Know  ? 

1  try  ;  but  that  cold  hand,  like  lead  —  so  cold  I 

Fest.  My  hand,  see  ! 

Par.  Ah,  the  curse,  Aprile,  Aprile ! 

We  get  so  near  —  so  very,  very  near  ! 
'T  is  an  old  tale  :     Jove  strikes  the  Titans  down 
Not  when  they  set  about  their  mountain-piling, 
But  when  another  rock  would  crown  the  work. 
And  Phaeton  —  doubtless  his  first  radiant  ])lunge 
Astonished  mortals,  though  the  gods  were  calm, 
And  Jove  prepared  his  thunder :  all  old  tales  ! 

Fest.  And  what  are  these  to  you  ? 

Par.  Ay,  fiends  must  laugh 

So  cruelly,  so  well ;  most  like  I  never 
Could  tread  a  single  pleasure  underfoot, 
But  they  were  grinning  by  my  side,  were  chuckling 
To  see  me  toil  and  ilroj)  away  by  flakes  I 
Hell-spawn  !     I  am  glad,  most  glad,  that  thus  I  fail ! 
Your  cunning  lias  o'ershot  its  aim.     One  year. 
One  month,  i)erhaps,  and  I  had  served  your  turn  ! 


PARACELSUS  105 

You  should  have  curbed  your  spite  awhile.     But  now, 

Who  %vill  believe  't  was  you  that  held  me  back  ? 

Listen  :  there  's  shame  and  hissing  and  contempt, 

And  none  but  laughs  who  names  me,  none  but  spits 

Measureless  scorn  upon  me,  me  alone, 

The  quack,  the  cheat,  the  liar,  —  all  on  me  ! 

And  tlms  your  famous  plan  to  sink  mankind 

In  silence  and  despair,  by  teaching  them 

One  of  their  race  had  probed  the  inmost  truth, 

Had  done  all  man  could  do,  yet  failed  no  less  — 

Your  wise  plan  proves  abortive.     Men  despair  ? 

Ha,  ha  !   why,  they  are  hooting  the  empiric, 

Tlie  ignorant  and  incapable  fool  who  rushed 

Madly  upon  a  work  beyond  his  wits ; 

Nor  doubt  they  but  the  simplest  of  themselves 

Could  bring  the  matter  to  triumphant  issue. 

So,  pick  and  choose  among  them  all,  accursed  ] 

Try  now,  j^ersuade  some  other  to  slave  for  you, 

To  ruin  body  and  soul  to  work  your  ends  I 

No,  no ;  I  am  the  first  and  last,  I  think. 

Fest.  Dear  friend,  who  are  accursed  ?  who  has  done  .  .  . 

Par.  What  have  1  done  ?     Fiends  dare  ask  that  ?  or  you. 
Brave  men  ?     Oh,  you  can  chime  in  boldly,  backed 
By  the  others  '     What  had  you  to  do,  sage  peers  .'' 
Here  stand  my  rivals  ;  Latin,  Arab,  Jew, 
Greek,  join  dead  hands  against  me  :  all  I  ask 
Is,  that  the  world  enroll  my  name  with  theirs, 
And  even  this  poor  privilege,  it  seems. 
They  range  themselves,  prepared  to  disallow. 
Only  observe  :  why,  fiends  may  learn  from  them  ! 
How  they  talk  calmly  of  my  throes,  my  fierce 
Aspirings,  terrible  watchings,  each  one  claiming 
Its  price  of  blood  and  brain  ;  how  they  dissect 
And  sneeringly  disparage  the  few  truths 
Got  at  a  life's  cost ;  they  too  hanging  the  while 
About  my  neck,  their  lies  misleading  me 
And  their  dead  names  browbeating  me  !      Gray  crew, 
Yet  steeped  in  fresh  malevolence  from  hell. 
Is  there  a  reason  for  your  hate  ?     My  truths 
Have  shaken  a  little  the  palm  about  each  prince  ? 
Just  think,  Aprile,  all  these  leering  dotards 
Were  bent  on  nothing  less  than  to  be  crowned 
As  we  !     That  yellow  blear-eyed  wretch  in  chief 
To  whom  the  rest  cringe  low  with  feigned  respect, 
Galen  of  Pergamos  and  hell  —  nay  speak 
The  tale,  old  man  I   We  met  there  face  to  face : 


106  PARACELSUS 

I  said  the  crown  should  fall  from  thee.     Once  more 

We  meet  as  in  that  ghastly  vestibule  : 

Look  to  my  brow !     Have  I  redeemed  my  pledge  ? 

J^est.  Peace,  peace  ;  ah,  see  ! 

Par.  Oh,  emptiness  of  fame  ! 

0  Persic  Zoroaster,  lord  of  stars  ! 

—  Who  said  these  old  renowns,  dead  long  ago, 

Could  make  me  overlook  the  living  workl 

To  gaze  through  gloom  at  where  they  stood,  indeed. 

But  stand  no  longer  ?     What  a  warm  light  life 

After  the  shade  !     In  truth,  my  delicate  witch, 

My  serpent-queen,  you  did  but  well  to  hide 

The  juggles  I  had  else  detected.     Fire 

May  well  run  harmless  o'er  a  breast  like  yours  ! 

The  cave  was  not  so  darkened  by  the  smoke 

But  that  your  white  limbs  dazzled  me  :  oh,  white, 

And  panting  as  they  twinkled,  wildly  dancing  ! 

1  cared  not  for  your  passionate  gestures  then. 
But  now  I  have  forgotten  the  charm  of  charms, 
The  foolish  knowledge  which  I  came  to  seek. 
While  I  remember  that  quaint  dance  ;  and  thus 
I  am  come  back,  not  for  those  mummeries. 
But  to  love  you,  and  to  kiss  your  little  feet 
Soft  as  an  ermine's  winter  coat  ! 

Fest,  A  light 

Will  struggle  through  these  thronging  words  at  last. 
As  in  the  angry  and  tumultuous  West 
A  soft  star  trembles  through  the  drifting  clouds. 
These  are  the  strivings  of  a  spirit  which  hates 
So  sad  a  vault  should  coop  it,  and  calls  up 
The  past  to  stand  between  it  and  its  fate. 
Were  he  at  Einsiedeln  —  or  Michal  here  ! 

Par.    Cruel !  I  seek  her  now  —  I  kneel  —  I  shriek  — 
I  clasp  her  vesture  — but  she  fades,  still  fades  ; 
And  she  is  gone ;  sweet  human  love  is  gone  ! 
'T  is  only  when  they  sj^ring  to  heaven  that  angels 
Reveal  themselves  to  you  ;  they  sit  all  day 
Beside  you,  and  lie  down  at  night  by  you 
Who  care  not  for  their  presence,  muse  or  sleep, 
And  all  at  once  they  leave  you  and  you  know  them  ! 
We  are  so  fooled,  so  cheated  I      Why,  even  now 
I  am  not  too  secure  against  foul  ])lay  ; 
The  shadows  deepen  and  the  walls  contract : 
No  doubt  some  treachery  is  going  on. 
'T  is  very  dusk.     Where  are  we  put,  Aprile  ? 
Have  they  left  us  in  the  lurch  ?     This  nmrky  loathsome 


PARACELSUS  107 

Death-trap,  this  slaughter-house,  is  not  the  hall 
In  the  golden  city  !     Keep  by  me,  Aprile  ! 
There  is  a  hand  grojjing  amid  the  blackness 
To  catch  us.     Have  the  spider-lingers  got  you, 
Poet  ?     Hold  on  me  for  your  life  !     If  once 
They  pull  you  I  —  Hold  ! 

'T  is  but  a  dream  —  no  more  ! 
I  have  you  still ;  the  sun  comes  out  again  ; 
Let  us  be  happy :  all  will  yet  go  well ! 
Let  us  confer  :  is  it  not  like,  Aprile, 
That  spite  of  trouble,  this  ordeal  passed, 
The  value  of  my  labors  ascertained, 
Just  as  some  stream  foams  long  among  the  rocks 
But  after  glideth  glassy  to  the  sea, 
So,  full  content  shall  henceforth  be  my  lot  ? 
What  think  you,  poet  ?     Louder  !      Your  clear  voice 
Vibrates  too  like  a  harp-string.     Do  you  ask 
How  could  I  still  remain  on  earth,  should  God 
Grant  me  the  great  approval  which  I  seek  ? 
I,  you,  and  God  can  comjjrehend  each  other. 
But  men  would  murmur,  and  with  cause  enough ; 
For  when  they  saw  me,  stainless  of  all  sin, 
Preserved  and  sanctified  by  inward  light. 
They  would  complain  that  comfort,  shut  from  them, 
I  drank  thus  unespied  ;  that  they  live  on, 
Nor  taste  the  quiet  of  a  constant  joy. 
For  ache  and  care  and  doubt  and  weariness. 
While  I  am  calm  ;  help  being  vouchsafed  to  me, 
And  hid  from  them.  —  'T  were  best  consider  that ! 
You  reason  well,  Aprile  ;  but  at  least 
Let  me  know  this,  and  die  !      Is  this  too  much  ? 
I  will  learn  this,  if  God  so  please,  and  die  ! 
If  thou  shalt  please,  dear  God,  if  thou  shalt  please ! 
We  are  so  weak,  we  know  our  motives  least 
In  their  confused  beginning.     If  at  first 
I  sought  .  .  .  but  wherefore  bare  my  heart  to  thee  ? 
I  know  thy  mercy  ;  and  already  thoughts 
Flock  fast  about  my  soul  to  comfort  it. 
And  intimate  I  cannot  wholly  fail. 
For  love  and  praise  would  clasp  me  willingly 
Could  I  resolve  to  seek  them.     Thou  art  good. 
And  I  should  be  content.     Yet —  yet  first  show 
I  have  done  wrong  in  daring  !     Rather  give 
The  supernatural  consciousness  of  strength 
Which  fed  my  youth  !      Only  one  hour  of  that. 
With  thee  to  help  —  O  what  should  bar  me  then  ! 


108  PARACELSUS 

Lost,  lost  !     Thus  things  are  ordered  here  I      God's  crea- 
tures, 
And  yet  he  takes  no  pride  in  us  I  —  none,  none  ! 
Truly  there  needs  another  life  to  come ! 
If  this  be  all  —  (I  must  tell  Festus  that) 
And  other  life  await  us  not  —  for  one, 
I  say  't  is  a  poor  cheat,  a  stupid  bungle, 
A  wretched  faihire.     I,  for  one,  protest 
Against  it,  and  1  hurl  it  back  with  scorn. 

Well,  onward  though  alone  !     Small  time  remains, 

And  much  to  do :  I  must  have  fruit,  must  reap 

Some  profit  from  my  toils.     I  doubt  my  body 

Will  hardly  serve  me  through ;  while  I  have  labored 

It  has  decayed  ;  and  now  that  I  demand 

Its  best  assistance,  it  will  crumble  fast : 

A  sad  thought,  a  sad  fate  !     How  very  full 

Of  wormwood  't  is,  that  just  at  altar-service. 

The  rapt  hymn  rising  with  the  rolling  smoke, 

When  glory  dawns  and  all  is  at  the  best. 

The  sacred  fire  may  flicker  and  grow  faint 

And  die  for  want  of  a  wood-piler's  help ! 

Thus  fades  the  flagging  body,  and  the  soul 

Is  pulled  down  in  the  overthrow.     Well,  well  — 

Let  men  catch  every  word,  let  them  lose  nought 

Of  what  I  say  ;  something  may  yet  be  done. 

They  are  ruins  !     Trust  me  who  am  one  of  you  ! 
All  ruins,  glorious  once,  but  lonely  now. 
It  makes  my  heart  sick  to  behold  you  crouch 
Beside  your  desolate  fane  :  the  arches  dim, 
The  crumbling  colunms  grand  against  the  moon, 
Could  I  but  rear  them  up  once  more  —  but  that 
May  never  be,  so  leave  them  !     Trust  me,  friends, 
Why  should  you  linger  here  when  I  have  built 
A  far  resplendent  temple,  all  your  own  ? 
Trust  me,  they  are  but  ruins  !      See,  Aprile, 
Men  will  not  heed  !     Yet  were  I  not  prepared 
With  better  refuge  for  them,  tongue  of  mine 
Should  ne'er  reveal  how  blank  their  dwelling  is  : 
I  would  sit  down  in  silence  with  the  rest. 

Ha,  what  ?  you  spit  at  me,  you  grin  and  shriek 
Contempt  into  my  ear  —  my  ear  which  drank 
God's  accents  once  ?  you  curse  me  ?     Why  men,  men, 
I  am  not  formed  for  it  I     Those  hideous  eyes 


PARACELSUS  109 

Will  be  before  me  sleeping,  waking,  praying, 

They  will  not  let  me  even  die.     Spare,  spare  me, 

Sinning  or  no,  forget  that,  only  s])are  me 

The  horrible  scorn  !     You  thought  I  could  support  it, 

But  now  you  see  what  silly  fragile  creature 

Cowers  thus.     I  am  not  good  nor  bad  enougli. 

Not  Christ  nor  Cain,  yet  even  Cain  was  saved 

From  hate  like  this.     Let  me  but  totter  back  ! 

Perhaps  I  shall  elude  those  jeers  which  creep 

Into  my  very  brain,  and  shut  these  scorched 

Eyelids  and  keep  those  mocking  faces  out. 

Listen,  Aprile  !     I  am  very  calm  : 

Be  not  deceived,  there  is  no  passion  here 

Where  the  blood  leajjs  like  an  imprisoned  thing: 

I  am  calm  :  I  will  exterminate  the  race  ! 

Enougli  of  that :   't  is  said  and  it  shall  be. 

And  now  be  merry  :  safe  and  sound  am  I 

Who  broke  through  their  best  ranks  to  get  at  you. 

And  such  a  havoc,  such  a  rout,  Aprile  ! 

Fest.  Have  you  no  thought,  no  memory  for  me, 
Aureole  ?     I  am  so  wretched  —  my  pure  Michal 
Is  gone,  and  you  alone  are  left  me  now. 
And  even  you  forget  me.     Take  my  hand  — 
Lean  on  me  thus.      Do  you  not  know  me,  Aureole  ? 

Par.   Festus,  my  own  friend,  you  are  come  at  last  ? 
As  you  say,  't  is  an  awful  enterprise  ; 
But  you  believe  I  shall  go  through  with  it : 
'T  is  like  you,  and  I  thank  you.     Thank  him  for  me, 
Dear  Michal !      See  how  bright  St.  Saviour's  spire 
Flames  in  the  sunset ;  all  its  figures  quaint 
Gay  in  the  glancing  light :  you  might  conceive  them 
A  troop  of  yellow-vested  white-haired  Jews 
Bound  for  their  own  land  where  redemjjtion  dawns. 

Fest.  Not  that  blest  time  —  not  our  youth's  time,  dear 
God  1 

Par.  Ha  —  stay  !  true,  I  forget  —  all  is  done  since, 
And  he  is  come  to  judge  me.     How  he  speaks, 
How  calm,  how  well  I   yes,  it  is  true,  all  true  ; 
All  quackery  ;  all  deceit ;  myself  can  laugh 
The  first  at  it,  if  you  desire  :  but  still 
You  know  the  obstacles  which  taught  me  tricks 
So  foreign  to  my  nature  —  envy  and  hate, 
Blind  opposition,  brutal  prejudice. 
Bald  ignorance  —  what  wonder  if  I  sunk 
To  linnior  men  the  way  they  most  approved  ? 
My  cheats  were  never  palmed  on  such  as  you, 


110  PARACELSUS 

Dear  Festus  !     I  will  kneel  if  you  require  me, 

Impart  the  meagre  knowledge  I  possess, 

Explain  its  bounded  nature,  and  avow 

My  insufficiency  —  wliate'er  you  will : 

I  give  the  fight  up  :  let  there  be  an  end, 

A  j)rivacy,  an  obscure  nook  for  me. 

I  want  to  be  forgotten  even  by  God. 

But  if  that  cannot  be,  dear  Festus,  lay  me, 

When  I  shall  die,  within  some  narrow  grave, 

Not  by  itself  —  for  that  would  be  too  proud  — 

But  where  such  graves  are  thickest ;  let  it  look 

Nowise  distinguished  from  the  hillocks  round, 

So  that  the  peasant  at  his  brother's  bed 

May  tread  upon  my  own  and  know  it  not ; 

And  we  shall  all  be  equal  at  the  last, 

Or  classed  according  to  life's  natural  ranks. 

Fathers,  sons,  brothers,  friends  —  not  rich,  nor  wise, 

Nor  gifted :  lay  me  thus,  then  say,  "  Me  lived 

Too  much  advanced  before  his  brother  men  ; 

They  kept  him  still  in  front :   'twas  for  their  good 

But  yet  a  dangerous  station.     It  were  strange 

That  he  should  tell  God  he  had  never  ranked 

With  men  :  so,  here  at  least  he  is  a  man." 

Fest.  That  God  shall  take  thee  to  his  breast,  dear  spirit, 
Unto  his  breast,  be  sure  !   and  here  on  earth 
Shall  splendor  sit  upon  thy  name  forever. 
Sun  !  all  the  heaven  is  glad  for  thee  :   what  care 
If  lower  mountains  light  their  snowy  phares 
At  thine  effulgence,  yet  acknowledge  not 
The  source  of  day  ?     Their  theft  shall  be  their  bale  : 
For  after-ages  shall  retrack  thy  beams, 
And  put  aside  the  crowd  of  busy  ones 
And  worship  thee  alone  —  the  master-mind. 
The  thinker,  the  explorer,  the  creator ! 
Then,  who  sliould  sneer  at  the  convulsive  throes 
With  which  thy  deeds  were  born,  would  scorn  as  well 
The  sheet  of  winding  subterraneous  fire 
Which,  pent  and  writhing,  sends  no  less  at  last 
Huge  islands  up  amid  the  simmering  sea. 
Behold  thy  miglit  in  me  I   thou  hast  infused 
Thy  soul  in  mine  ;  and  I  am  grand  as  thou, 
Seeing  I  com})reliond  thee  —  I  so  simple. 
Thou  so  august.     I  recognize  thee  first ; 
I  saw  thee  rise,  I  watched  thee  early  and  late, 
And  though  no  glance  reveal  thou  dost  accept 
My  homage  —  thus  no  less  I  proffer  it, 
And  bid  thee  enter  gloriously  thy  rest. 


PARACELSUS  111 

Par.  Festus ! 

Fest.  I  am  for  noble  Aureole,  God  ! 

I  am  upon  his  side,  come  weal  or  woe. 
His  portion  shall  be  mine.     He  has  done  well. 
I  would  have  sinned,  liad  I  been  stronof  enough, 
As  he  has  sinned.      Reward  him  or  I  waive 
Reward  !     If  thou  can.st  find  no  place  for  him, 
He  shall  be  king  elsewhere,  and  I  will  be 
His  slave  forever.     There  are  two  of  us. 
Par.  Dear  Festus ! 

Fe.'it.  Here,  dear  Aureole  !  ever  by  you  ! 

Par.  Nay,  speak  on,  or  I  dream  again.     Speak  on ! 
Some  story,  anything  —  only  your  voice. 
I  shall  dream  else.     Speak  on  !  ay,  leaning  so  ! 
Fest.  Thus  the  Main  "lideth 

Where  my  Love  abideth. 

Sleep  's  no  softer  :  it  proceeds 

On  through  lawns,  on  through  meads, 

On  and  on,  wdiat-e'er  befall, 

Meandering  and  musical, 

Though  the  niggard  pasturage 

Bears  not  on  its  shaven  ledge 

Aught  but  weeds  and  waving  grasses 

To  view  the  river  as  it  passes. 

Save  here  and  there  a  scanty  patch 

Of  primroses  too  faint  to  catch 

A  weary  bee. 
Par.   More,  more  ;  say  on  ! 
Fest.  And  scarce  it  pushes 

Its  gentle  way  through  strangling  rushes 

Where  the  glossy  kingfisher 

Flutters  when  noon-heats  are  near, 

Glad  the  shelving  banks  to  shun. 

Red  and  steaming  in  the  sun. 

Where  the  shrew-mouse  with  pale  throat 

Burrows,  and  the  speckled  stoat ; 

Where  the  quick  sandpipers  flit 

In  and  out  the  marl  and  grit 

That  seems  to  breed  them,  brown  as  they  : 

Nought  disturbs  its  quiet  way. 

Save  some  lazy  stork  that  springs, 

Trailing  it  with  legs  and  wings. 

Whom  the  shy  fox  from  the  hill 

Rouses,  creep  he  ne'er  so  still. 
Par.  My  heart !  they  loose  my  heart,  those  simple  words  ; 
Its  darkness  passes,  Avhich  nought  else  could  touch  : 


112  PARACELSUS 

Like  some  dark  snake  that  force  may  not  expel, 

AVhich  glideth  out  to  music  sweet  and  low. 

What  were  you  doing  when  your  voice  broke  through 

A  chaos  of  ugly  images  ?     You,  indeed  ! 

Are  you  alone  here  ? 

I'^est.  All  alone  :  vou  know  me  ? 

This  cell  ? 

Fai'.         An  unexceptionable  vault : 
Good  brick  and  stone  :  the  bats  kept  out,  the  rats 
Kept  in :  a  snug  nook  :  how  should  I  mistake  it  ? 

Fest.  But  wherefore  am  I  here  ? 

Par.  Ah,  well  remembered  ! 

Why,  for  a  purpose  —  for  a  purpose,  Festus  ! 
'T  is  like  me  :  here  I  trifle  while  time  fleets, 
And  this  occasion,  lost,  will  ne'er  return. 
You  are  here  to  be  instructed.     I  will  tell 
God's  message  ;   but  I  have  so  much  to  say, 
I  fear  to  leave  half  out.     All  is  confused 
No  doubt ;  but  doubtless  you  will  learn  in  time. 
He  would  not  else  have  brought  you  here :  no  doubt 
I  shall  see  clearer  soon. 

Fest.  Tell  me  but  this  — 

You  are  not  in  despair  ? 

Par.  I  ?  and  for  what  ? 

Fest.  Alas,  alas !  he  knows  not,  as  I  feared  ! 

Par.  What  is  it  you  would  ask  me  with  that  earnest 
Dear  searching  face  ? 

Fest.  How  feel  you.  Aureole  ? 

Par.  Well : 

Well.     'T  is  a  strange  thing  :  I  am  dying,  Festas, 
And  now  that  fast  the  storm  of  life  subsides, 
I  first  perceive  how  great  the  whirl  has  been. 
I  was  calm  then,  who  am  so  dizzy  now  — 
Calm  in  the  thick  of  the  tempest,  bat  no  less 
A  partner  of  its  motion  and  mixed  up 
With  its  career.     The  hurricane  is  spent. 
And  the  good  boat  speeds  through  the  brightening  weather 
But  is  it  earth  or  sea  that  heaves  below  ? 
The  gulf  rolls  like  a  meadow-swell,  o'erstrewn 
With  ravaged  boughs  and  remnants  of  the  shore ; 
And  now  some  islet,  loosened  from  the  land, 
Swims  past  with  all  its  trees,  sailing  to  ocean  ; 
And  now  the  air  is  full  of  uptorn  canes. 
Light  strippings  from  the  fan-trees,  tamarisks 
Unrooted,  witli  their  birds  still  clinging  to  them, 
All  high  in  the  wind.     Even  so  my  varied  life 


PARACELSUS  113 

Drifts  by  me  ;  I  am  young,  old,  liappy,  sad, 

Hopln^^",  desponding,  acting,  taking  rest. 

And  all  at  once  :  tliat  is,  those  past  conditions 

Float  back  at  once  on  me.     If  I  select 

Some  special  epoch  from  the  crowd,  't  is  but 

To  will,  and  straight  the  rest  dissolve  away, 

And  only  that  particular  state  is  present 

With  all  its  long-forgotten  circumstance 

Distinct  and  vivid  as  at  first  —  myself 

A  careless  looker-on  and  nothing  more. 

Indifferent  and  amused,  but  nothing  more. 

All  this  is  death  :  I  understand  it  all. 

New  being  waits  me  ;  new  perceptions  must 

Be  born  in  me  before  I  plunge  therein  ; 

Which  last  is  Death's  affair  ;  and  while  I  sjjeak. 

Minute  by  minute  he  is  filling  me 

With  power ;  and  while  my  foot  is  on  the  threshold 

Of  boundless  life  —  the  doors  unopened  yet, 

All  preparations  not  complete  within  — 

I  turn  new  knowledge  upon  old  events, 

And  the  effect  is  .   .  .  but  I  must  not  tell  ; 

It  is  not  lawful.     Your  own  turn  will  come 

One  day.     Wait,  Festus  !     You  will  die  like  me. 

Fest.   'T  is  of  that  past  life  that  I  burn  to  hear. 

Par.  You  wonder  it  engages  me  just  now  ? 
In  truth,  I  wonder  too.      What 's  life  to  me  ? 
Wliere'er  I  look  is  fire,  where'er  I  listen 
Music,  and  where  I  tend  bliss  evermore. 
Yet  how  can  I  refrain  ?     'T  is  a  refined 
Delight  to  view  those  chances,  —  one  last  view. 
I  am  so  near  the  perils  I  escape, 
That  I  must  play  with  them  and  turn  them  over, 
To  feel  how  fully  they  are  past  and  gone. 
Still,  it  is  like,  some  further  cause  exists 
For  this  peculiar  m^od  —  some  hidden  purpose  ; 
Did  I  not  ii\\  you  soni3thing  of  it,  Festus  ? 
I  had  it  fast,  but  it  has  somehow  slipt 
Away  from  me  ;   it  will  return  anon. 

Fest.   (Indeed  his  cheek  seems  young  again,  his  voice 
Complete  with  its  old  tones  :  that  little  laugh 
Concluding  every  phrase,  with  upturned  eye. 
As  though  one  stooped  above  his  head  to  whom 
He  looked  for  confirmation  and  approval, 
Where  was  it  gone  so  long,  so  well  jireserved  ? 
Then,  the  forefinger  pointing  as  he  speaks, 
Like  one  who  traces  in  an  open  book 


114  PARACELSUS 

The  matter  he  declares ;  't  is  many  a  year 
Since  I  remarked  it  last :  and  this  in  him, 
But  now  a  ghastly  wreck  I) 

And  can  it  be, 
Dear  Aureole,  you  have  then  found  out  at  last 
That  worldly  things  are  utter  vanity  ? 
That  man  is  made  for  weakness,  and  should  wait 
In  j^atient  ignorance,  till  God  appoint  .   .  . 

Par.  Ha,  the  purpose  :  the  true  purpose  :  that  is  it ! 
How  could  I  fail  to  ai)preliend !      You  here, 
I  thus  !     But  no  mure  trilling  :  I  see  all, 
I  know  all :  my  last  mission  shall  be  done 
If  strength  suffice.     No  trifling  !     Stay ;  this  jjosture 
Hardly  befits  one  thus  about  to  speak  : 
I  will  arise. 

Fest.  Nay,  Aureole,  are  you  wild  ? 

You  cannot  leave  your  couch. 

Par.  No  help  ;  no  help  ; 

Not  even  your  hand.     So  !  there,  I  stand  once  more  ! 
Speak  from  a  couch  ?     I  never  lectured  thus. 
My  gown  —  the  scarlet  lined  with  fur  ;  now  put   ■ 
The  chain  about  my  neck  ;  my  signet-ring 
Is  still  upon  my  hand,  I  think  —  even  so  ; 
Last  my  good  sword  ;  ah,  trusty  Azoth,  leapest 
Beneath  thy  master's  grasp  for  the  last  time  ? 
This  couch  shall  be  my  throne  :   I  bid  these  walls 
Be  consecrate,  this  wretched  cell  become 
A  shrine,  for  here  God  speaks  to  men  through  me. 
Now,  Festus,  I  am  ready  to  begin. 

Fest.  I  am  dumb  with  wonder. 

Par.  Listen,  therefore,  Festus  ! 

There  will  be  time  enough,  but  none  to  spare. 
I  must  content  myself  with  telling  only 
The  most  important  points.      You  doubtless  feel 
That  I  am  happy,  Festus  ;  very  happy. 

Fest.  'T  is  no  delusion  which  uplifts  him  thus  ! 
Then  you  are  pardoned,  Aureole,  all  your  sin  ? 

Par.  Ay,  pardoned  :  yet  why  pardoned  ? 

Fest.  'T  is  God's  praise 

That  man  is  bound  to  seek,  and  you  .  .  . 

Par.  Have  lived ! 

We  liave  to  live  alone  to  set  forth  well 
God's  praise.     'Tis  true,  I  sinned  much,  as  I  thought, 
And  in  effect  need  mercy,  for  I  strove 
To  do  that  very  thing ;  but,  do  your  best 
Or  worst,  praise  rises,  and  will  rise  forever. 


PARACELSUS  115 

Pardon  from  him,  because  of  praise  denied  — 
Who  calls  me  to  himself  to  exalt  himself  ? 
He  might  laugli  as  I  laugh  ! 

Fest.  But  all  comes 

To  the  same  thing.      'T  is  fruitless  for  mankind 
To  fret  themselves  with  what  concerns  them  not ; 
They  are  no  use  that  way :  they  should  lie  down 
Content  as  God  has  made  them,  nor  f>o  mad 
In  thnveless  cares  to  better  what  is  ill. 

J^ar.  No,  no  ;  mistake  me  not ;  let  me  not  work 
More  harm  than  I  have  worked  !     This  is  my  case : 
If  I  go  joyous  back  to  God,  yet  bring 
No  ottering,  if  I  render  up  my  soul 
Without  the  fruits  it  was  ordained  to  bear, 
If  I  appear  the  better  to  love  God 
For  sin,  as  one  who  has  no  claim  on  him,  — 
Be  not  deceived  I     It  may  be  surely  thus 
With  me,  while  higher  prizes  still  await 
The  mortal  persevering  to  the  end. 
Beside  I  am  not  all  so  valueless  : 
I  have  been  something,  though  too  soon  I  left 
Following  the  instincts  of  that  happy  time. 

Jp'est.  What  happy  time  ?     For  God's   sake,  for  man's 
sake. 
What  time  was  happy  ?     All  I  hope  to  know 
That  answer  will  decide.     What  happy  time  ? 

P«r.  When  but  the  time  I  vowed  myself  to  man  ? 

Fest.   Great  God.  thy  judgments  are  inscrutable  ! 

Par.   Yes,  it  was  in  me  ;  I  was  born  for  it  — 
I,  Paracelsus  :  it  was  mine  by  right. 
Doubtless  a  searching  and  impetuous  soul 
Might  learn  from  its  ow^n  motions  that  some  task 
Like  this  awaited  it  about  the  world  ; 
Might  seek  somewhere  in  this  blank  life  of  ours 
For  fit  delights  to  stay  its  longings  vast ; 
And,  grappling  Nature,  so  prevail  on  her 
To  hit  the  creature  full  she  dared  thus  frame 
Hungry  for  joy  ;   and,  bravely  tyrannous. 
Grow  in  demand,  still  craving  more  and  more, 
And  make  each  joy  conceded  prove  a  pledge 
Of  other  joy  to  follow  —  bating  nought 
Of  its  desires,  still  seizing  fresh  pretence 
To  turn  the  knowledge  and  the  rapture  wrung 
As  an  extreme,  last  boon,  from  destiny. 
Into  occasion  for  new  covetings. 
New  strifes,  new  triumphs  :  —  doubtless  a  strong  soul, 


116  PARACELSUS 

Alone,  unaided  might  attain  to  this, 

So  glorious  is  our  nature,  so  august 

Man's  inborn  uninstructed  impulses, 

His  naked  spirit  so  majestical ! 

But  this  was  born  in  nie  ;  I  was  made  so  ; 

Thus  much  time  saved  :  the  feverish  appetites, 

The  tumult  of  unproved  desire,  the  unaimed 

Uncertain  yearnings,  aspirations  blind, 

Distrust,  mistake,  and  all  that  ends  in  tears 

Were  saved  me  ;  thus  I  entered  on  my  course. 

You  may  be  sure  I  was  not  all  exempt 

From  human  trouble  ;  just  so  much  of  doubt 

As  bade  me  plant  a  surer  foot  upon 

The  sun-road,  kept  my  eye  unruined  'mid 

Tlie  fierce  and  flasliing  splendor,  set  my  heart 

Tremblincj  so  much  as  warned  me  I  stood  there 

On  sufferance  —  not  to  idly  gaze,  but  cast 

Light  on  a  darkling  race  ;  save  for  that  doubt, 

I  stood  at  first  where  all  aspire  at  last 

To  stand :  the  secret  of  the  world  was  mine. 

I  knew,  I  felt,  (perception  unexpressed, 

Uncomprehended  by  our  narrow  thought. 

But  somehow  felt  and  known  in  every  shift 

And  change  in  the  spirit,  —  nay,  in  every  pore 

Of  the  body,  even,)  —  what  God  is,  what  we  are. 

What  life  is  —  how  God  tastes  an  infinite  joy 

In  infinite  ways  —  one  everlasting  bliss, 

From  whom  all  being  emanates,  all  power 

Proceeds  ;  in  whom  is  life  forevermore, 

Yet  whom  existence  in  its  lowest  form 

Includes  ;  where  dwells  enjoyment  there  is  he  : 

With  still  a  flying  point  of  bliss  remote, 

A  happiness  in  store  afar,  a  sphere 

Of  distant  glory  in  full  view  ;  thus  climbs 

Pleasure  its  heights  forever  and  forever. 

The  centre-fire  heaves  underneath  the  earth. 

And  the  earth  changes  like  a  human  face  ; 

The  molten  ore  bursts  up  among  the  rocks, 

Winds  into  the  stone's  heart,  outbranches  bright 

In  hidden  mines,  spots  barren  river-beds. 

Crumbles  into  fine  sand  where  sunbeams  bask  — 

God  joys  therein.     The  wroth  sea's  waves  are  edged 

With  foam,  white  as  the  bitten  lip  of  hate. 

When,  In  the  solitary  waste,  strange  groups 

Of  young  volcanos  come  up,  cyclops-Hke, 

Staring  together  with  their  eyes  on  flame  — 


PARACELSUS  117 

God  tastes  a  pleasure  in  their  uncouth  pride. 
Then  all  is  still ;  earth  is  a  wintry  clod : 

But  sprino-wind.  like  a  dancing  psaltress,  passes 

Over  its  breast  to  waken  it ;  rare  verdure 

Buds  tenderly  upon  rough  banks,  between 

The  withered  tree-roots  and  the  cracks  of  frost, 

Like  a  smile  striving  with  a  wrinkled  face ; 

The  grass  grows  bright,  the  boughs  are  swoln  with  blooms 

Like  chrysalids  impatient  for  the  air. 

The  shining  dorrs  are  busy,  beetles  run 

Along:  the  furrows,  ants  make  their  ado ; 

Above,  birds  fly  in  merry  flocks,  the  lark 

Soars  up  and  up,  shivering  for  very  joy  ; 

Afar  the  ocean  sleeps  ;  white  fishing-gulls 

Flit  where  the  strand  is  purj^le  with  its  tribe 

Of  nested  limpets  ;  savage  creatures  seek 

Their  loves  in  wood  and  plain  —  and  God  renews 

His  ancient  rapture.     Thus  he  dwells  in  all. 

From  life's  minute  beginnings,  up  at  last 

To  man  —  the  consummation  of  this  scheme 

Of  being,  the  completion  of  this  sphere 

Of  life  :  whose  attributes  had  here  and  there 

Been  scattered  o'er  the  visible  world  before, 

Asking  to  be  combined,  dim  fragments  meant 

To  be  united  in  some  wondrous  whole, 

Imperfect  qualities  throughout  creation, 

Suggesting  some  one  creature  yet  to  make. 

Some  point  where  all  those  scattered  rays  should  meet 

Convergent  in  the  faculties  of  man. 

Power  —  neither  put  forth  blindly,  nor  controlled 

Calmly  by  perfect  knowledge  ;  to  be  used 

At  risk,  inspired  or  checked  by  hope  and  fear : 

Knowledge  —  not  intuition,  but  the  slow 

Uncertain  fruit  of  an  enhancing  toil. 

Strengthened  by  love  :  love  —  not  serenely  pure. 

But  strong  from  weakness,  like  a  chance-sown  plant 

Which,  cast  on  stubborn  soil,  puts  forth  changed  buds 

And  softer  stains,  unknown  in  happier  climes  ; 

Love  which  endures  and  doubts  and  is  oppressed 

And  cherished,  suffering  much  and  much  sustained, 

And  blind,  oft-failing,  yet  believing  love, 

A  half-enlightened,  often-checkered  trust :  — 

Hints  and  previsions  of  which  faculties 

Are  strewn  confusedly  everywhere  about 

The  inferior  natures,  and  all  lead  up  higher, 

All  shape  out  dimly  tlie  superior  race, 


118  PARACELSUS 

The  heir  of  hoj3es  too  fair  to  turn  out  false, 

And  man  appears  at  last.     So  far  the  seal 

Is  put  on  lite;  one  stage  of  being  complete, 

One  scheme  wound  up :  and  from  the  grand  result 

A  supplementary  reflux  of  light, 

Illustrates  all  the  inferior  grades,  explains 

Each  back  step  in  the  circle.     Not  alone 

For  their  possessor  dawn  those  qualities, 

But  the  new  glory  mixes  with  the  heaven 

And  earth  ;  man,  once  descried,  imprints  forever 

His  presence  on  all  lifeless  things :  the  winds 

Are  henceforth  voices,  wailing  or  a  shout, 

A  querulous  mutter  or  a  quick  gay  laugh, 

Never  a  senseless  gust  now  man  is  born. 

The  herded  pines  commune  and  have  deep  thoughts, 

A  secret  they  assemble  to  discuss 

When  the  sun  drops  behind  their  trunks  which  glare 

Like  grates  of  hell :  the  peerless  cup  afloat 

Of  the  lake-lily  is  an  urn,  some  nymph 

Swims  bearing  high  above  her  head  :  no  bird 

Whistles  unseen,  but  through  the  gaps  above 

That  let  light  in  upon  the  gloomy  woods, 

A  shape  peeps  from  the  breezy  forest-top, 

Arch  with  small  puckered  mouth  and  mocking  eye. 

The  morn  has  enterj)rise,  deep  quiet  droops 

With  evening,  triumph  takes  the  sunset  hour, 

Voluptuous  transport  ripens  with  the  corn 

Beneath  a  warm  moon  like  a  happy  face  : 

—  And  this  to  fill  us  with  regard  for  man. 

With  apprehension  of  his  passing  worth. 

Desire  to  work  his  proper  nature  out, 

And  ascertain  his  rank  and  final  place, 

For  these  things  tend  still  upward,  progress  is 

The  law  of  life,  man  is  not  Man  as  yet. 

Nor  shall  I  deem  his  object  served,  his  end 

Attained,  his  genuine  strength  put  fairly  forth, 

While  only  here  and  there  a  star  dispels 

The  darkness,  here  and  there  a  towering  mind 

O'erlooks  its  prostrate  fellows  :  when  the  host 

Is  out  at  once  to  tlie  despair  of  night, 

When  all  mankind  alike  is  perfected, 

E(pial  in  full-blown  powers  —  then,  not  till  then, 

I  say,  begins  man's  general  infancy. 

For  wherefore  make  account  of  feverish  starts 

Of  restless  members  of  a  dormant  whole. 

Impatient  nerves  whidi  quiver  while  the  body 


PARACELSUS  119 

Slumbers  as  in  a  grave  ?     Oh  long  ago 

The  brow  was  twitched,  the  tremulous  lids  astir, 

The  peaceful  mouth  disturbed  ;  halt"  uttered  speech 

Ruffled  the  lip,  and  then  the  teeth  were  set, 

The  breath  drawn  sharp,  the  strong  right  hand  clenched 

stronger, 
As  it  wouhl  pluck  a  lion  by  the  jaw  ; 
The  glorious  creature  laughed  out  even  in  sleep ! 
But  when  full  roused,  each  giant-limb  awake. 
Each  sinew  strung,  the  great  heart  pulsing  fast, 
He  sliall  start  up  and  stand  on  his  own  earth, 
Then  sliall  his  long  triumphant  march  begin. 
Thence  shall  his  being  date,  —  thus  wholly  roused, 
What  he  achieves  shall  be  set  down  to  him. 
When  all  the  race  is  perfected  alike 
As  man,  that  is  ;  all  tended  to  mankind, 
And,  man  produced,  all  has  its  end  thus  far  : 
But  in  completed  man  begins  anew 
A  tendency  to  God.     Prognostics  told 
Man's  near  approach ;  so  in  man's  self  arise 
August  anticipations,  symbols,  types 
Of  a  dim  splendor  ever  on  before 
In  that  eternal  circle  life  pursues. 
For  men  begin  to  pass  their  nature's  bound, 
And  find  new  hopes  and  cares  which  fast  supplant 
Their  proj^er  joys  and  griefs  ;  they  grow  too  great 
For  narrow  creeds  of  right  and  wrong,  which  fade 
Before  the  unmeasured  thirst  for  good  :  while  peace 
Rises  within  them  ever  more  and  more. 
Such  men  are  even  now  upon  the  earth, 
Serene  amid  the  half-formed  creatures  round 
Who  should  be  saved  by  them  and  joined  with  them. 
Such  was  my  task,  and  I  was  born  to  it  — 
Free,  as  I  said  but  now,  from  much  that  chains 
Spirits,  high-dowered  but  limited  and  vexed 
By  a  divided  and  delusive  aim, 
A  shadow  mocking  a  reality 
Whose  truth  avails  not  wholly  to  disperse 
The  flitting  mimic  called  up  by  itself. 
And  so  remains  perplexed  and  nigh  put  out 
'By  its  fantastic  fellow's  wavering  gleam. 
I,  from  the  first,  was  never  cheated  thus ; 
I  never  fashioned  out  a  fancied  good 
Distinct  from  man's ;  a  service  to  be  done, 
A  glory  to  be  ministered  unto 
With  powers  put  forth  at  man's  expense,  withdrawn 


120  PARACELSUS 

From  laboring  in  his  behalf  ;  a  strength 

Denied  that  might  avail  him.     I  cared  not 

Lest  his  success  ran  counter  to  success 

Elsewhere :  for  God  is  glorified  in  man, 

And  to  man's  glory  vowed  I  soul  and  limb. 

Yet,  constituted  thus,  and  thus  endowed, 

I  failed :  I  gazed  on  power  till  I  grew  blind. 

Power ;  I  could  not  take  my  eyes  from  that : 

That  only,  1  thought,  should  be  preserved,  increased 

At  any  risk,  displayed,  struck  out  at  once  — 

The  sign  and  note  and  character  of  man. 

I  saw  no  use  in  the  past :   only  a  scene 

Of  degradation,  ugliness  and  tears, 

The  record  of  disgraces  best  forgotten, 

A  sullen  page  in  human  chronicles 

Fit  to  erase.     I  saw  no  cause  why  man 

Should  not  stand  all-sufficient  even  now. 

Or  why  his  annals  should  be  forced  to  tell 

That  once  the  tide  of  light,  about  to  break 

Upon  the  world,  was  sealed  within  its  spring  : 

I  would  have  had  one  day,  one  moment's  space, 

Change  man's  condition,  push  each  slumbering  claim 

Of  mastery  o'er  the  elemental  world 

At  once  to  full  maturity,  then  roll 

Oblivion  o'er  the  work,  and  hide  from  man 

What  night  had  ushered  morn.     Not  so,  dear  child 

Of  after-days,  wilt  thou  reject  the  past 

Big  \\\t\\  deej:)  warnings  of  the  proper  tenure 

By  which  thou  hast  the  earth  :   for  thee  the  present 

Shall  liave  distinct  and  trembling  beauty,  seen 

Beside  that  past's  own  shade  when,  in  relief. 

Its  brightness  shall  stand  out :  nor  yet  on  thee 

Shall  burst  the  future,  as  successive  zones 

Of  several  wonder  open  on  some  spirit 

Flying  secure  and  glad  from  heaven  to  heaven  : 

But  thou  shalt  painfully  attain  to  joy, 

While  hope  and  fear  and  love  shall  keep  thee  man  ! 

All  this  was  hid  from  me  :  as  one  by  one 

My  dreams  grew  dim,  my  wide  aims  circumscribed, 

As  actual  good  within  my  reach  decreased. 

While  obstiicles  sprung  up  this  way  and  that 

To  kee})  me  from  effecting  half  the  sum. 

Small  as  it  j)roved  ;  as  objects,  mean  within 

The  primal  aggregate,  seemed,  even  the  least. 

Itself  a  match  for  my  concentred  strength  — 

What  wonder  if  I  saw  no  way  to  shun 


PARACELSUS  121 

Despair  ?     The  power  I  sought  for  man,  seemed  God's. 
In  this  conjuncture,  as  I  prayed  to  die, 
A  strange  adventure  made  me  know,  one  sin 
Had  spotted  my  career  from  its  uprise  ; 
I  saw  Ajnile  —  my  Aprile  there  ! 
And  as  the  ])oor  melodious  wretch  disburdened 
His  heart,  and  moaned  his  weakness  in  my  ear, 
I  learned  my  own  deep  error ;  love's  undoing- 
Taught  me  the  worth  of  love  in  man's  estate. 
And  what  proportion  love  should  hold  with  power 
In  his  right  constitution  ;  love  preceding 
Power,  and  with  much  power,  always  much  more  love ; 
Love  still  too  straitened  in  his  present  means, 
And  earnest  for  new  power  to  set  love  free. 
I  learned  this,  and  supposed  the  whole  was  learned : 
And  thus,  when  men  received  with  stupid  wonder 
My  first  revealings,  would  have  w^orshipped  me, 
And  I  despised  and  loathed  their  proffered  praise  — 
When,  with  awakened  eyes,  they  took  revenge 
For  past  credulity  in  casting  shame 
On  my  real  knowledge,  and  I  hated  them  — 
It  was  not  strange  I  saw  no  good  in  nian. 
To  overbalance  all  the  w^ear  and  waste 
Of  faculties,  displayed  in  vain,  but  born 
To  prosper  in  some  better  sphere  :  and  why  ? 
In  my  own  heart  love  had  not  been  made  wise 
To  trace  love's  faint  beginnings  in  mankind. 
To  know  even  hate  is  but  a  mask  of  love's. 
To  see  a  good  in  evil,  and  a  hope 
In  ill-success  ;  to  symjjathize,  be  proud 
Of  their  half-reasons,  faint  aspirings,  dim 
Struggles  for  truth,  their  poorest  fallacies, 
Their  prejudice  and  fears  and  cares  and  doubts ; 
All  with  a  touch  of  nobleness,  despite 
Their  error,  upward  tending  all  though  weak, 
Like  plants  in  mines  which  never  saw  the  sun. 
But  dream  of  him,  and  guess  where  he  may  be. 
And  do  their  best  to  climb  and  get  to  him. 
All  this  I  knew  not,  and  I  failed.     Let  men 
Regard  me,  and  the  poet  dead  long  ago 
Who  loved  too  rashly  ;  and  shape  forth  a  third 
And  better-tempered  spirit,  warned  by  both  : 
As  from  the  over-radiant  star  too  mad 
To  drink  the  life-springs,  beamless  thence  itself  — 
And  the  dark  orb  which  borders  the  abyss. 
Ingulfed  in  icy  night,  —  might  have  its  course, 


122  PARACELSUS 

A  temperate  and  equidistant  world. 
Meanwhile,  I  have  done  well,  though  not  all  well ; 
As  yet  men  cannot  do  without  contempt ; 
'T  is  for  their  good,  and  therefore  fit  awhile 
That  they  reject  the  weak,  and  scorn  the  false, 
Rather  than  praise  the  strong  and  true,  in  me : 
But  after,  they  will  know  me.     If  I  stoop 
Into  a  dark  tremendous  sea  of  cloud, 
It  is  but  for  a  time  ;  I  press  God's  lamj) 
Close  to  my  breast ;  its  splendor,  soon  or  late, 
Will  pierce  the  gloom  :   I  shall  emerge  one  day. 
You  understand  me  ?     I  have  said  enough  ! 

Fest.  Now  die,  dear  Aureole  ! 

Par.  Festus,  let  my  hand 

This  hand,  lie  in  your  own,  my  own  true  friend  1 
Aprile  !     Hand  in  hand  with  you,  Aprile  ! 

Fest.  And  this  was  Paracelsus  ! 


NOTE 

The  liberties  I  have  taken  with  my  subject  are  very  trifling  ;  and  the 
reader  may  slip  the  foregoing-  scenes  between  the  leaves  of  any  memoir  of 
Paracelsus  he  pleases,  by  w'ay  of  commentary.  To  prove  this,  I  subjoin  a 
popular  account,  translated  from  the  Biographie  V nioerselle,  Paris,  1822, 
which  I  select,  not  as  the  best,  certainly,  but  as  being-  at  hand,  and  suffi- 
ciently concise  for  my  purpose.  I  also  append  a  fevv-  notes,  in  order  to 
correct  those  parts  wliich  do  not  bear  out  my  own  view  of  the  character  of 
Paracelsus  ;  and  have  incorporated  with  them  a  notice  or  two,  illustrative 
of  the  poem  itself. 

"  Paracelsus  (Philippus  Aureolus  Theophrastus  Bombastus  ab  Hohen- 
heim)  was  born  in  149o  at  Einsiedein,^  a  little  town  in  the  canton  of 
Schwj'tz,  some  leagues  distant  from  Zurich.  His  father,  who  exercised  the 
profession  of  medicine  at  Villach  in  Carinthia,  was  nearly  related  to  George 
Bombast  de  Hohenheim.  who  became  afterward  Grand  Prior  of  the  Order 
of  Malta  :  consequently  Paracelsus  could  not  spring  from  the  dregs  of  the 
people,  as  Thomas  Erastus,  his  sworn  enemy,  pretends.*  It  appears  that 
his  elementary  education  was  much  neglected,  and  that  he  spent  part  of 
his  youth  in  pursuing  the  life  common  to  the  travelling-  literati  of  the 
age ;  that  is  to  say,  in  wandering-  from  country  to  country,  predicting  the 
future  by  astrology  and  cheiromancy,  evoking  apparitions,  and  practising 
the  different  operations  of  mag-ic  and  alchemy,  in  wdiich  he  had  been  ini- 
tiated either  by  his  father  or  by  various  ecclesiastics,  among  the  num- 
ber of  whom  he  particularizes  the  Abbot  Tritheim,-^  and  many  German 
bishops. 

'  *  As  Paracelsus  displays  everywhere  an  ignorance  of  the  rudiments  of 
the  most  ordinary  knowledge,  it  is  not  probable  that  he  ever  studied  seri- 
ously in  the  schools :  he  contented  liinLself  with  visiting  the  universities  of 
Germany,  France,  and  Italy ;  and  in  spite  of  his  boasting  himself  to  have 
been  the  ornament  of  those  institutions,  there  is  no  proof  of  his  ha\'ing 
legally  acquired  the  title  of  Doctor,  which  he  assiimes.  It  is  only  known 
that  he  applied  himself  long,  under  the  direction  of  the  wealthy  Sigismond 
Fugger  of  Schwatz,  to  the  discovery  of  the  Magnum  Opus. 

"  Paracelsus  travelled  among  the  mountains  of  Bohemia,  in  the  East,  and 
in  Sweden,  in  order  to  inspect  the  labors  of  the  miners,  to  be  initiated  in 
the  mysteries  of  the  oriental  adepts,  and  to  observe  the  secrets  of  nature 
and  the  famous  mountain  of  loadstone.  "^  He  professes  also  to  have 
visited  Spain,  Portugal,  Prussia,  Poland,  and  Transylvania ;  everywhere 
communicating  freely,  not  merely  with  the  phvsicians,  but  the  old  women, 
charlatans,  and  conjurers  of  these  several  lands.  It  is  even  believed  that 
he  extended  his  journeyings  as  far  as  Egypt  and  Tartary,  and  that  he 
accompanied  the  son  of  the  Khan  of  the  Tartars  to  Constantinople,  for  the 

*  I  sliall  disguise  51.  Renauldin's  next  sentence  a  little.  "  Hie  (Erastus  sc.)  Para- 
celsum  trimum  a  milite  quodam,  alii  a  sue  exectum  fennit :  constat  iniberbem  ilium, 
mulierunique  osorem  fiiisse."  A  .standing  High-Dutch  joke  in  those  days  at  tlie  expense 
of  a  number  of  learned  men,  as  may  be  seen  by  referring  to  such  rubbish  as  Melander's 
Jocoseria,  etc.  In  the  prints  from  his  portrait  by  Tintoretto,  painted  a  year  before 
his  death,  Paracelsus  is  bnrbfifii/ns,  at  all  events.  But  Erastus  was  never  without  a  good 
reason  for  his  faith  —  e.  g.,  "  Helvetinm  fnisse  (Paracelsum)  vix  credo  vix  enim  ea  regio 
tale  monstrum  ediderit."     (Z>e  Medicina  Nova.) 


124  NOTE 

purpose  of  obtaining  the  secret  of  the  tincture  of  Trismegistus  from  a  Greek 
who  inhabited  that  capital. 

"  The  period  of  his  return  to  Germany  is  unknoAvn  :  it  is  only  certain 
that,  at  about  the  age  of  thirty-three,  many  astonishing  cures  which  he 
wrought  on  eminent  personages  procured  him  such  a  celebrity,  that  he  was 
called  in  l."J2(),  on  the  recommendation  of  QiicolamDadius.*  to  fill  a  chair 
of  phjsic  and  surgery  at  the  university  of  Basel.  There  Paracelsus  beg'an 
by  burning  publicly  in  the  amphitheatre  the  works  of  Avicenna  and  Galen, 
assuring  his  auditors  that  the  latchets  of  his  shoes  were  more  instructed 
than  those  two  physicians ;  that  all  universities,  all  writers  put  together, 
were  less  gifted  than  the  hairs  of  his  beard  and  of  the  crown  of  his  head  ; 
and  that,  in  a  word,  he  was  to  be  regarded  as  the  legitimate  monarch  of 
medicine.  'You  shall  follow  me,'  cried  he,  'you,  A\icenua,  Galen.  Rhasis, 
Montagnana,  Mesues ;  you,  gentlemen  of  Paris.  Montpellier,  Germany, 
Cologne,  Vienna,*  and  whomsoever  the  Rhine  and  Danube  nourish  ;  you  who 
inhabit  the  isles  of  the  sea ;  you,  like^vise,  Dalmatians,  Athenians ;  thou, 
Arab  ;  thou,  Greek ;  thou,  Jew  ;  all  shall  follow  me,  and  the  monarchy 
shall  be  mine.'  t 

"  But  at  Basel  it  was  speedily  perceived  that  the  new  Professor  was  no 
better  than  an  egTegious  quack.  Scarcely  a  year  elapsed  before  his  lec- 
tures had  fairly  driven  away  an  audience  incapable  of  comprehending  their 
emphatic  jargon.  That  which  above  all  contributed  to  sully  his  reputation 
was  the  debauched  life  he  led.  According  to  the  testimony  of  Oporinus, 
who  lived  two  years  in  his  intimacy,  Paracelsus  scarcely  ever  ascended  the 
lecture-desk  unless  half  drunk,  and  only  dictated  to  his  secretaries  when  in 
a  state  of  intoxication  :  if  summoned  to  attend  the  sick,  he  i*arely  proceeded 
thither  without  previously  drenching  himself  with  wine.  He  was  accustomed 
to  retire  to  bed  without  changing  his  clothes  ;  sometimes  he  spent  the  night 
in  pot-houses  Avith  peasants,  and  in  the  morning  knew  no  longer  what  he 
was  about ;  and,  nevertheless,  up  to  the  age  of  twenty-five  his  only  drink 
had  been  water. ^ 

"  At  length,  fearful  of  being  punished  for  a  serious  outrage  on  a  mag- 
istrate,^ he  fled  from  Basel  towards  the  end  of  the  year  1527,  and  took 
refuge  in  Alsatia,  whither  he  caused  Oporinus  to  follow  with  his  chemical 
apparatus. 

"  He  then  entered  once  more  upon  the  career  of  ambulatory  theosophist.  J 
Accordingly  we  find  him  at  Colmar  in  1528  ;  at  Nuremberg  in  1529 ;  at  St. 
Gall  in  15;]1 ;  at  Pfeffers  in  15o5  ;  and  at  Augsbiu'g  in  15.](i  :  he  next  made 
some  stay  in  Moravia,  where  he  still  further  compromised  his  rejiutation 
by  the  loss  of  many  distinguished  patients,  which  compelled  him  to  betake 
himself  to  Vienna  ;  from  thence  he  passed  into  Hungary ;  and  in  15o8  was 
at  Villach,  where  he  dedicated  his  Chronicle  to  tlie  States  of  Carintliia, 
in  gratitude  for  the  many  kindnesses  with  which  they  had  honored  his 

*  Er.astus,  who  relates  this,  here  oddly  remarks,  "iiiirum  quod  non  et  Gararaaiitos, 
Indos  et  .Ih^V/o.?  adjimxit."  Not  so  wonderful  neither,  if  we  believe  wliat  anothpr  ad- 
versary "  had  heard  somewhere,"  —  that  all  Paracelsus'  system  came  of  his  pillaging 
"Anglum  quendam,  Rogerium  Bacchonem." 

t  See  his  works,  passim.  I  must  give  one  specimen  :  —  Somebody  had  been  styling 
him  "Luther  alter."  "And  why  not?"  (lie  asks,  as  he  well  might.)  "Luther  is 
abundantly  learned,  therefore  you  hate  him  and  me  ;  but  we  are  at  least  a  mattli  for 
you.  —  Nam  et  contra  vos  et  vestros  universes  principes  Avicennam,  Galcnum,  Aristote- 
lem,  etc.  me  satis  superfjue  munituni  esse  novi.  Et  vertex  iste  meus  calvus  ac  depilis 
multo  jilura  et  siiblimiora  novit  quam  vester  vel  Avicenna  vel  universa'  academic. 
Prodite,  et  signum  date,  qui  viri  sitis,  quid  roboris  habeatis  ?  quid  autem  sitis?  Doctores 
et  magistri,  iiediculos  pectentes  et  fricantes  podicem."     {Frag.  Med.) 

X  "So  migratory  a  life  could  afford  Paracelsus  but  little  leisure  for  application  to 
books,  and  accordingly  lie  informs  us  that  for  the  space  of  ten  years  he  never  opened  a 
single  voluiue,  and  that  liis  whole  medical  library  was  not  composed  of  six  sheets :  in 
effect,  tlie  inventory  drawn  up  after  his  death  states  that  the  only  books  whicli  lie  left 
were  the  Bible,  the  New  Testament,  the  Commentaries  of  St.  Jerome  on  the  Gospels,  a 
printed  volume  on  Medicine,  and  seven  manuscripts." 


NOTE  12;') 

father.  Finally,  from  Mindelhelm,  which  he  visited  in  1540,  Paracelsus 
proceeded  to  Salzburg,  where  he  died  in  tlie  Hospital  of  St.  Stephen  (Sebas- 
tian in  meant),  Sept.  24,  1~)41." — (Here  follows  a  criticism  on  his  writ- 
ings, which  I  omit. ) 

^  Paracelsus  would  seem  to  be  a  fantastic  version  of  Von  Hohenheim. 
Einsiedeln  is  the  Latinized  Eremus,  whence  Paracelsus  is  sometimes  called, 
as  in  the  correspondence  of  Erasmus,  Eremita.  Bombast,  his  proper  name, 
probably  acquired,  from  the  characteristic  phraseology  of  his  lectures,  tliat 
unlucky  signification  which  it  has  ever  since  retained. 

2  Then  Bishop  of  Spanheim,  and  residing  at  Wiirzburg  in  Franconia ; 
a  town  situated  in  a  grassy  fertile  country,  whence  its  name,  Herbipolis. 
He  was  much  visited  there  by  learned  men,  as  may  be  seen  by  his  Epis- 
tohv.  Familiares,  Hag.  15o():  among  others,  by  his  stanch  friend  Corne- 
lius Agrippa,  to  whom  he  dates  thence,  in  1510,  a  letter  in  answer  to  the 
dedicatory  epistle  prefixed  to  the  treatise  De  Occult.  Philosoph.,  which 
last  contains  the  following  ominous  allusion  to  Agrippa's  sojourn:  "  Quuni 
nuper  tecum,  R.  P.  in  coenobio  tuo  apud  Herbipolira  aliquamdiu  conver- 
satus,  multa  de  ehymicis,  multa  de  magieis,  multa  de  cabalisticis,  eaetei'is- 
que  qute  adhuc  in  oeculto  delitescunt,  arcanis  seientiis  atque  artibus  una 
contulissemus, "  etc. 

^  "  Inexplebilis  ilia  aviditas  naturae  perscrutandi  secreta  et  reeondita- 
rum  supellectile  scientiarum.  animum  locupletandi,  uno  eodemque  loco  diu 
persistere  non  patiebatur,  sed  Mercurii  instar,  oran^s  terras,  nationes  et 
iirbes  perlustrandi  igniculos  supponebat,  ut  cum  viris  naturae  scrutatoribus, 
ehymicis  prtesei'tim,  ore  tenus  conferret,  et  quae  diurturnis  laboribus  noc- 
turnisque  vigiliis  invenerant  una  vel  altera  communicatione  obtineret." 
(Bitiskms  in  Pro'f at.)  "  Patris  auxilio  primura.  delude  propria  industria 
doctissimos  viros  in  Germania,  Italia,  Gallia,  Hispania,  aliisque  Europ?e 
regionibus,  nactus  est  prseceptores  ;  quorum  liberali  doetrina,  et  potissi- 
mum  propria  inquisitione  ut  qui  esset  ingeuio  acutissimo  ac  fere  divino, 
tantum  profecit,  ut  multi  testati  sint,  in  universa  philosophia,  tam  ardua, 
tam  arcana  et  abdita,  eruisse  mortalium  neminem."  (Melch.  Adam,  in 
Vit.  Germ.  Medic.)  "  Paracelsus  qui  in  intinia  naturae  viscera  sic  penitus 
introierit,  raetallorum  stirpiumque  vires  et  facultates  tam  incredibili  in- 
genii  acumine  exploraverit  ac  perviderit,  ad  morbos  omnes  vel  desperatos 
et  opinione  hominum  insanabiles  percurandum  ;  ut  cum  Theophrasto  uata 
primum  medicina  perfeetaque  videtur."  (Petri  Rami  Orat.  de  liasilea.) 
His  passion  for  wandering  is  best  described  in  his  own  words  :  "  Ecce  ama- 
torem  adolescentem  difficillimi  itineris  hand  piget,  ut  venustam  saltern 
puellam  vel  f oeminam  aspiciat :  quauto  minus  nobilissimarum  artlum 
amore  laboris  ac  cujuslibet  taedii  pigebit  ? "  etc.  (Defensiones  Septem 
adversus  cemulos  suos.    15To.     Def .  4ta    "  De  peregrinationibus  etexilio.") 

*  The  reader  may  remember  that  it  was  in  conjunction  with  (Ecolam- 
padius,  then  Divinity  Professor  at  Basel,  that  Zuinglius  published  in  1528 
an  answer  to  Luther's  Confession  of  Faith  ;  and  that  both  proceeded  in 
company  to  the  subsequent  conference  Avith  Luther  and  Melancthon  at 
Marl)urg.  Their  letters  fill  a  large  volume.  —  "  Z>.  D  Johannis  (Ecolain- 
padii  et  Huldrichi  Zuinglii  Epistolarum  lib.  quatuor.''''  Bas.  15;}().  It  must 
be  also  observed  that  Zuinglius  began  to  preach  in  15 1(),  and  at  Zurich 
in  1511).  and  that  in  1525  the  Mass  was  abolished  in  the  cantons.  The 
tenets  of  CEcolampadius  were  supposed  to  be  more  evangelical  than  those 
up  to  that  period  maintained  by  the  glorious  German,  and  our  brave 
Bishop  Fisher  attacked  them  as  the  fouler  heresy  :  —  "About  this  time 
arose  out  of  Luther's  school  one  CEcolampadius,  like  a  mighty  and  fierce 


126  NOTE 

giant ;  who,  as  his  master  had  gone  beyond  the  Church,  went  beyond  his 
master  (or  else  it  had  been  impossible  he  could  have  been  reputed  the 
better  scholar),  who  denied  the  real  pi-esence  ;  him,  tiiis  worthy  champion 
(the  Bishop)  sets  upon,  and  with  five  books  (like  so  many  smooth  stones 
taken  out  of  the  river  that  doth  always  run  with  living'  water)  slays  the 
Philistine ;  which  five  books  were  written  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1526,  at 
which  time  he  had  governed  the  See  of  Rochester  twenty  years. "  (Life 
of  Bishop  Fisher,  1()55. )  Now,  there  is  no  doubt  of  the  Protestantism  of 
Paracelsus,  Erasmus,  Agrippa,  etc. ,  but  the  noncoivf ormity  of  Paracelsus 
was  always  scandalous.  L.  Crasso  [Elogj  d' Iluomini  Letterati.  Ven. 
1()(;6)  informs  us  that  his  books  Avere  excommunicated  by  the  Church. 
Quensledt  ide  Pair.  Doct.)  affirms  "nee  tantum  novae  medicinae,  verum 
etiam  novae  theologiae  autor  est"  Delrio,  in  his  Disquisit.  Magicar., 
classes  him  among  those  "  partim  atheos,  partim  haereticos  "  (lib.  1.  cap. 
3).  "  Omnino  tamen  multa  theologica  in  ejusdem  seriptis  plane  atheismuni 
olent,  ac  duriuscule  sonant  in  auribus  vere  Christiani."  (D  Gabrielis 
Clauderi  Sehediasma  de  Tinct.  Univ.  Norimb.  ITo^S. )  I  shall  only  add 
one  more  authority:  —  "  Oporinus  dicit  se  (Paracelsum)  aliquando  Lu- 
therum  et  Papam,  uon  minus  quam  nunc  Galenum  et  Hippoeratem  redactu- 
runi  in  ordinem  miuabatur,  neque  enim  eorum  qui  hactenus  in  scripturam 
sacram  scripsissent,  sive  veteres,  sive  -recentiores,  quenquam  scriptur* 
imcleum  recte  eruisse,  sed  circa  corticem  et  quasi  membranam  tantum 
haerere."  (Th.  Erastus,  Disputat.  de  Med.  Nova.)  These  and  similar 
notions  had  their  due  effect  on  Oporinus,  who,  says  Zuingerus,  in  bis 
Theatrum,  "  longum  vale  dixit  ei  (Paracelso),  ne  ob  prseceptoris,  alioqui 
amicissimi,  horrendas  blasphemias  ipse  quoque  aliquando  poenas  Deo  Opt. 
Max.  lueret. " 

^  His  defenders  allow  the  drunkenness.  Take  a  sample  of  their  ex- 
cuses :  "  Gentis  hoc,  non  viri  vitiolum  est,  a  Taciti  seculo  ad  nostrum  usque 
non  interrupto  filo  devolutum,  sinceritati  forte  Germanas  coaevum.  et  nescio 
an  ali([iao  consanguinitatis  vinculo  junctum."  (Bitiskius. )  The  other 
charges  were  chiefly  trumped  up  by  Oporinus  :  "  Domi,  quod  Oporinus 
amanuensis  ejias  sajpe  narravit,  nunquam  nisi  potus  ad  explicanda  sua  ac- 
cessit.  atque  in  medio  conclavi  ad  columnam  reTvcpcajiieuos  adsistens,  appre- 
henso  manibus  capulo  ensis,  cujus  koIXw/jm  hospitium  praebuit,  ut  aiunt, 
spiritui  familiari,  imaginationes  aut  coneepta  sua  protulit :  —  alii  illud  quod 
in  capulo  habuit,  ab  ipso  Azoth  appellatum,  medicinam  f  uisse  pra^stantis- 
simam  aut  lapidem  Philosophicum  putant."  (Meleh.  Adam.)  This  fa- 
mous sword  was  no  laughing-matter  in  those  days,  and  it  is  now  a  material 
featur;'  in  the  popular  idea  of  Paracelsus.  I  recollect  a  couple  of  allusion.-} 
to  it  in  our  own  literature,  at  the  moment. 

Ne  liad  been  known  the  Banish  Gonswart, 
Or  Paracelsus  with  liis  long  .sword. 

]'o!po7iC,  Act  ii.  Scene  2. 

Bumbastus  kept  a  devil's  bird 
Shnt  in  the  pummel  of  his  sword, 
That  taught  him  all  the  cniniing  pranks 
Of  past  and  future  mountebanks. 

Jludibras,  Part  ii.  Cant.  3. 

This  Azoth  was  simply  ^''laudanum  suum.''^  But  in  his  time  he  was 
commonly  believed  to  possess  the  double  tincture  —  the  power  of  curing 
diseases  and  transmuting  metals.  0])orinus  often  witnessed,  as  he  de- 
clares, both  these  effects,  as  did  also  Franciscus,  the  servant  of  Paracelsus, 
who  describes,  in  a  letter  to  Neander.  a  successful  projection  at  which  he 
was  present,  and  the  results  of  which,  good  golden  ingots,  were  confided 
to  his  keeping.     For  the    other  quality,  let   the  following  notice  vouch 


NOTE  127 

among'  many  others  :  —  "  Degebat  Theophrastus  Norlmbergae  procitus  a 
medentibus  illins  nrbis,  et  vaniloquus  deceptorque  proclamatus,  qui,  ut 
laboranti  fania^  siibveniat,  vires  qnosdara  authoritatis  sunim*  in  Republica 
ilia  adit,  et  infami;«  anioliendaj,  artique  suj«  asserendse,  specimen  ejus  pol- 
licetur  edituruni,  nullo  stipendio  vel  accepto  pretio,  lioruni  faciles  prasben- 
tiuni  aures  jussu  elepliantiacos  aliquot,  a  coniniunione  honiinum  caeterorum 
segregatos,  et  in  valetudinariuni  detrusos,  alieno  arbitrio  eliguntur,  quos 
virtute  singulari  remedioium  suoruni  Tlieoplirastus  a fteda  Grsecorum  lepra 
mundat,  piistinteque  sanitati  restituit ;  conservat  illustre  baruni  curatio- 
nuni  urbs  in  arcbivis  suis  testimonium."  ( Bitiskius. )  *  It  is  to  be  re- 
marked tliat  Oporinus  afterwards  repented  of  bis  treachery  :  "  Sed  resipuit 
tandem,  et  quem  vivum  eonvitiisinseetatus  fuerat  defunctum  veneratione 
prosequutus,  infames  fanue  prteceptoris  morsus  in  remorsus  conseientia? 
convevsi  pceuitentia.  heu  nimis  tarda,  vulnera  clausere  exanimi  qusespiranti 
intiixerant."  For  tbese  "bites"  of  Oporinus,  see  Disputat.  Erasti,  and 
Andrea?  Jocisci  Oratio  de  vit.  oh.  Opor' ;  for  the  "remorse,"  Mic.  Toxita 
in  pref.  Testamenti,  and  Conringius  (otherwise  an  enemy  of  Paracelsus), 
who  says  it  was  contained  in  a  letter  from  Oporinus  to  Doctor  Vegerus.t 

Whatever  the  moderns  may  tliink  of  these  marvellous  attributes,  the 
title  of  Paracelsus  to  be  considered  the  father  of  modern  chemistry  is  in- 
disputable. Gerardus  Vossius,  De  Philos"  ft  Philos"'"  seeds,  thus  prefaces 
the  ninth  section  of  cap.  9,  De  Chymia  :  "  Nobilem  banc  medieinas  par- 
tem, diu  sepultam  avorum  setate,  quasi  ab  orco  revocavit  Th.  Paracel- 
sus." I  suppose  many  hints  lie  scattered  in  his  neglected  books,  which 
clever  appropriators  have  since  developed  with  applause.  Thus,  it  ap- 
pears from  his  treatise  De  Phlebotomia,  and  elsewhere,  that  he  had  dis- 
covered the  circulation  of  the  blood  and  the  sanguification  of  the  heart ; 
as  did  after  him  Realdo  Colombo,  and  still  more  perfectly  Andrea  Cesal- 
pino  of  Arezzo,  as  Bayle  and  Bartoli  observe.  Even  Lavater  quotes  a 
2>assage  from  his  work  De  Natura  Perum,  on  practical  Physiognomy,  in 
which  the  definitions  and  axioms  are  precise  enough:  he  adds,  "though 
an  astrological  enthusiast,  a  man  of  prodigious  genius."  See  Holcroft's 
Transhxtion,  vol.  iii.  p.  171) —  "The  Eyes."  While  on  the  subject  of  the 
writings  of  Paracelsus,  I  may  explain  a  passage  in  the  third  pint  of  the 
Poem.  He  was,  as  I  have  said,  unwilling  to  publish  his  woiks,  but  in 
effect  did  publish  a  vast  number.  Valentius  {in  Prcefat.  in  Paraniyr. )  de- 
clares "quod  ad  librorum  Paracelsi  copiara  attinet,  aiTdio,  a  Gdrmanis 
prope  treeentosreeenseri."  "  0  foecunditas  ingenii !  "  adds  he,  appositely. 
Many  of  these  were,  bow^ever,  spurious  ;  and  Fred.  Bitiskius  gives  his  good 
edition  (3  vols.  fol.  Gen.  1()58)  "  rejectis  suppositis  solo  ipsius  nomine 
superbientibus  quorum  ingens  circumfertur  numerus."  The  rest  were 
"  charissimum  et  pretiosissimum  authoris  pignus.  extorsum  potius  ab  illo 
quam  obtentum. "  "  Jam  minime  eo  volente  atque  jubente  hajc  ipsius  seripta 
in  lucem  prodisse  videntur ;  quippe  quae  muro  inclusa  ipso  abseute,  servi 
cujusdam  indicio,  furto  surrepta  atqiie  sublata  sunt,"  says  \  alentius. 
These  have  been  the  study  of  a  host  of  commentators,  among  whose 
label's  are  most  notable,  Petri  Severini,  Idea  Medicince  Philosojjhice.  Bas. 
1571 ;  Mic.  Toxetis,  Onoinastica.  Arg.  1574 ;   Dornei,  Diet.   Parac.  Franc. 

*  Tlie  premature  death  of  Paracelsus  casts  no  manner  of  doubt  on  the  fact  of  his  hav- 
insr  possessed  the  Elixir  Vitre  :  the  alchemists  have  abmidant  reasons  to  adduce,  from 
which  I  select  the  following,  as  explanatory  of  a  property  of  the  Tincture  not  calculated 
on  by  its  votaries:  —  "  Objectionem  illara,  quod  Paracelsus  non  fuerit  loncr;vvu.e,  non- 
nulli  quoque  solvunt  per  rationes  physicas  :  vitae  nimiruni  abbreviationem  fortasse  tali- 
bus  accidere  posse,  ob  Tincturam  frequentiore  ac  largiore  dosi  sunitam,  dum  a  .'^umme 
etficaci  et  penetrabili  hujns  virtute  calor  innatus  quasi  sufifocatur."  (Gabrielis  CUiuderi 
Schp(li'!sm(t.) 

t  For  a  good  defence  of  Paracelsus  T  refer  the  reader  to  Olaus  Borrichius'  treatise  — 
Henuetix  etc.  Snpientia  vindicntn,  \CuA.  Or,  if  he  is  no  more  learned  than  myself  in 
such  matters,  1  mention  simply  that  Paracelsus  introduced  the  use  of  Mercury  and  Lau- 
danum. 


128  NOTE 

1584 ;  "  and  P'  Philos^  Compendium  cum  scholiis   auctore   Leone   Suavio. 
Paris.      (This  last,  a  good  book. ) 

6  A  disgraceful  affair.  One  Lieehtenfels,  a  canon,  having  been  rescued 
in  extremis  by  the  ''"laudanum  "  of  Paracelsus,  refused  the  stipidated  fee, 
and  was  supported  in  his  meanness  by  the  authorities,  whose  interference 
Paracelsus  would  not  brook.  His  own  liberality  was  allowed  by  his  bit- 
terest foes,  who  found  a  ready  solution  of  his  indifference  to  profit  in  the 
aforesaid  sword-handle  and  its  guest.  His  freedom  from  the  besetting  sin 
of  a  profession  he  abhorred  —  (as  he  curiously  says  somewhere,  '  *  Quis 
quaeso  deinceps  honorem  deferat  professione  tali,  qii?e  a  tarn  facinorosis  ne 
bulonibus  obitur  et  administratur  ?  ")  — is  recorded  in  his  epitaph,  which 
affirms  —  "  Bona  sua  in  pauperes  distribuenda  coUocandaque  erogavit,'' 
honoravit,  or  ordinavit  —  for  accounts  differ. 


STRAFFORD 

A  TRAGEDY 

DEDICATED,    IN   ALL   AFFECTIONATE    ADJnRATION, 
TO 

WILLIAM  C.   MACREADY. 

LoxDOX,  April  23,  1837. 


PERSONS. 


Charles  I. 

Earl  of  Holland. 

Lord  S  A  VILE. 

Sir  Henry  Vane. 

Went  WORTH,      Viscount     Went- 

WORTH,  Earl  of  Strafford. 
John  Pym. 
John  Hampden. 
The  vounofer  Vane. 


Denzil  Hollis. 

Renjamin  Rudyard. 

Nathaniel  Fiennes. 

Earl  of  Loudon. 

Maxwell,  Usher  of  the  Black  Rod. 

Balfour,   Constable  of  the  Tower. 

A  Puritan. 

Queen  Henrietta. 

Lucy  Percy,   Countess  of  Carlisle. 


Presbyterians,  Scots  Commissioners,  Adherents  of  Strafford,  Secretaries, 
Officers  of  the  Court,  etc.     Two  of  Strafford's  children. 


ACT   I. 

Scene  I.  A  House  near  Whitehall.  Hampden,  Hollis,  the  younger 
Vane,  Rudyard,  Fiennes  and  many  of  the  Preshyterian  Party  : 
Loudon  and  other  Scots  Commissioners. 

Vane.  I  say,  if  he  be  here  — 

Rud.  (And  he  is  here  !)  — 

Hoi.  For  England's  sake  let  every  man  be  still 
Nor  speak  of  him,  so  much  as  say  his  name, 
Till  Pym  rejoin  us  !     Rudyard  !      Henry  Vane  ! 
One  rash  conclusion  may  decide  our  course 
And  with  it  England's  fate  —  think  —  England's  fate  ! 
Hampden,  for  England's  sake  they  should  be  still ! 

Vane.  You  say  so,  Hollis  ?     Well,  I  must  be  still. 
It  is  indeed  too  bitter  that  one  man, 


130  bTilAFFORD 

Any  one  man's  mere  presence  should  suspend 
England's  combined  endeavor  :  little  need 
To  name  him  ! 

Rud.  For  you  are  his  brother,  Hollis  ! 

Hamp.  Shame  on  you,  Rudyard  !  time  to  tell  him  that 
'         When  he  forgets  the  Mother  of  us  all. 

Hud.  Do  I  forget  her  ? 

Hamp.  You  talk  idle  hate 

Against  her  foe  :  is  that  so  strange  a  thing  ? 
Is  hating  Wentworth  all  the  help  she  needs  ? 

A  Puritan.  The  Philistine  strode,  cursing  as  he  went : 
But  Davdd  —  five  smooth  pebbles  from  the  brook 
Within  his  scrip  .  .  . 

Rud.  Be  you  as  still  as  David  ! 

Fien.  Here  's  Rudyard  not  ashamed  to  wag  a  tongue 
Stiff  with  ten  years'  disuse  of  Parliaments  ; 
Why,  when  the  last  sat,  Wentworth  sat  with  us ! 

Rud.  Let 's  hope  for  news  of  them  now  he  returns  — 
He  that  was  safe  in  Ireland,  as  we  thought ! 

—  But  I  '11  abide  Pym's  coming. 

Vane.  Now,  by  Heaven, 

They  may  be  cool  who  can,  silent  who  will  — 
Some  have  a  gift  that  way  I     Wentwoi  th  is  here, 
Here,  and  the  King  's  safe  closeted  with  him 
Ere  this.     And  when  I  think  on  all  that 's  jjast 
Since  that  man  left  us,  how  his  single  arm 
Rolled  the  advancing  good  of  England  back 
And  set  the  woful  past  up  in  its  place,  ^ 

Exalting  Dagon  where  the  Ark  should  be,  — 
How  that  man  has  made  firm  the  fickle  King 
(Hampden,  I  will  speak  out  I)  — in  aught  he  feared 
To  venture  on  before  ;  taught  tyranny 
Her  dismal  trade,  the  use  of  all  her  tools, 
To  ply  tiie  scourge  yet  screw  the  gag  so  close 
That  strangled  agony  bleeds  mute  to  death  — 
How  he  turns  Ireland  to  a  i)rivate  stage 
For  training  infant  villanies,  new  ways 
Of  wringing  treasure  out  of  tears  and  blood, 
Unheard  oppressions  nourished  in  the  dark 
To  try  how  much  man's  nature  can  endure 

—  If  he  dies  under  it,  what  harm  ?  if  not, 
Why,  one  more  trick  is  added  to  the  rest 
Worth  a  king's  knowing,  and  what  Ireland  bears 
England  may  learn  to  bear  ;  —  how  all  this  while 
That  man  has  set  himself  to  one  dear  task, 

The  bringing  Charles  to  relish  more  and  more 


i 


STRAFFORD  131 

Power,  power  without  law,  power  and  blood  too, 
—  Can  I  be  still  ? 

Hamp.  For  that  you  should  be  still. 

Vane.  O  Hampden,  then  and  now !    The  year  he  left  us, 
The  Peoi)le  in  full  Parliament  could  wrest 
The  Bill  of  Rights  from  the  reluctant  King ; 
And  now,  he  '11  find  in  an  obscure  small  room 
A  stealthy  gathering  of  great-hearted  men 
That  take  up  P^ngland's  cause  :  England  is  here! 

Hamp.  And  who  despairs  of  England  ? 

Bud.  That  do  I, 

If  Wentworth  comes  to  rule  her.     I  am  sick 
To  think  her  wretched  masters,  Hamilton, 
The  muckworm  Cottington,  the  maniac  Laud, 
May  yet  be  longed-for  back  again.     I  say, 
I  do  despair. 

Vane.  And,  Rudyard,  I  '11  say  this  — 

"Which  all  true  men  say  after  me,  not  loud 
])ut  solemnly  and  as  you  'd  say  a  prayer  I 
This  King,  who  treads  our  England  underfoot. 
Has  just  so  much  ...  it  may  be  fear  or  craft. 
As  bids  him  pause  at  each  fresh  outrage  ;  friends. 
He  needs  some  sterner  hand  to  grasp  his  own, 
Some  voice  to  ask,  "  Why  shrink?     Am  I  not  by?  " 
Now,  one  whom  England  loved  for  serving  her. 
Found  in  his  heart  to  say,  "  I  know  where  best 
The  iron  heel  shall  bruise  her,  for  she  leans 
Upon  me  when  you  trample."      Witness,  you  ! 
So  Wentworth  heartened  Charles,  so  England  fell. 
But  inasmuch  as  life  is  hard  to  take 
From  Enofland  .  .  . 

Many  Voices.     Go  on.  Vane  !     'T  is  well  said,  Vane  !  ^ 

Vane.  —  Who  has  not  so  forgotten  Runnymead  !  —       ^'^^ 

Voices.  'T  is  well  and  bravely  spoken,  Vane  !     Go  on  ! 

Vane.  —  There  are  some  little  sisrns  of  late  she  knows 
The  ground  no  place  for  her.     She  glances  round, 
Wentworth  has  drojDped  the  hand,  is  gone  his  way 
On  other  service  :  what  if  she  arise  ? 
No!  the  King  beckons,  and  beside  him  stands 
The  same  bad  man  once  more,  with  the  same  smile 
And  the  same  gesture.     Now  shall  England  crouch. 
Or  catch  at  us  and  rise  ? 

Voices.  The  Renegade ! 

Haman  !   Ahithophel  I 

Hamp.  Gentlemen  of  the  North, 

It  was  not  thus  the  night  your  claims  were  urged. 


132  STRAFFORD 

And  we  pronounced  the  League  and  Covenant, 
The  cause  of  Scotland,  England's  cause  as  well : 
Vane  there,  sat  motionless  the  whole  night  through. 

Vane.  Hampden  ! 

Fien.  Stay,  Vane! 

Lou.  Be  just  and  patient,  Vane  ! 

Vane.  Mind  how  you  counsel  patience,  Loudon  I  you 
Have  still  a  Parliament,  and  this  your  League 
To  back  it ;  you  are  free  in  Scotland  still  : 
While  we  are  brothers,  hope  's  for  England  yet. 
But  know  you  wherefore  Wentworth  comes  ?  to  quench 
This  last  of  hopes  ?  that  he  brings  war  with  liini  ? 
Know  you  the  man's  self  ?  what  he  dares  ? 

Lou.  We  know, 

All  know  —  't  is  nothing  new. 

Vane.  And  what 's  new,  then, 

In  calling  for  his  life  ?     Why,  Pym  himself  — 
You  must  have  heard  —  ere  Wentworth  dropped  our  cause 
He  would  see  Pym  first ;  there  were  many  more 
Strong  on  the  people's  side  and  friends  of  his, 
Eliot  that 's  dead,  Rudyard  ami  Hampden  here. 
But  for  these  Wentworth  cared  not  ;  only,  Pym 
He  would  see  — Pym  and  he  were  sworn,  'tis  said, 
To  iHe  and  die  together ;  so,  they  met 
At  Greenwich.     Wentworth,  you  are  sure,  was  long, 
Specious  enough,  the  devil's  argument 
Lost  notliing  on  his  lips  ;  he  'd  have  Pym  own 
A  patriot  could  not  play  a  purer  part 
Than  follow  in  his  track  ;  they  two  combined 
Might  put  down  England.     Well,  Pym  heard  him  out ; 
One  glance  —  you  know  Pym's  eye  —  one  word  was  all : 
"  You  leave  us,  Wentworth  !   while  your  head  is  on, 
I  '11  not  leave  you." 

Ham.p.  Has  he  left  Wentworth,  then  ? 

Has  England  lost  him  ?     Will  you  let  him  speak, 
Or  put  your  crude  surmises  in  his  mouth  ? 
Away  with  this  !     Will  you  have  Pym  or  Vane  ? 

Voices.  Wait  Pym's  arrival !     Pym  shall  sjDeak. 

Havip.  Meanwhile 

Let  Loudon  read  the  Parliament's  report 
From  Edinburgh  :  our  last  hope,  as  Vane  says, 
Is  in  the  stand  it  makes.      Loudon  ! 

Vane.  No,  no  ! 

Silent  I  can  be  :   not  indifferent ! 

Ilanq^.  Then  each  keej)  silence,  praying  God  to  spare 
His  anger,  cast  not  P^ngland  quite  away 
In  this  her  visitation  ! 


STRAFFORD  133 

A  Puritan.  Seven  years  long 

The  Midianite  drove  Israel  into  dens 
And  caves.     Till  God  sent  forth  a  mighty  man, 

(Pym  enters.) 
Even  Gideon ! 

Fyiii.  Wentworth  's  come  :  nor  sickness,  care, 

The  ravaged  body  nor  the  ruined  soul, 
More  than  the  winds  and  waves  that  beat  his  ship. 
Could  keep  him  from  the  King.     He  has  not  reached 
Whitehall :  they  've  hurried  up  a  Council  there 
To  lose  no  time  and  find  him  work  enough. 
Where  's  Loudon  ?  your  Scots'  Parliament  .  .  . 

Lou.  Holds  firm  : 

We  were  about  to  read  reports. 

Pym.  The  King 

Has  just  dissolved  your  Parliament. 

Lou.  and  other  Scots.  Great  God  !  ' 

An  oath-breaker  !     Stand  by  us,  England,  then ! 

Pym.  The   King 's    too    sanguine ;    doubtless    Wentworth 's 
here ; 
But  still  some  little  form  might  be  kept  up. 

Hamj).  Now  speak.  Vane !     Rudyard,  you  had  much  to  say  ! 

Hoi.  The  rumor  's  false,  then  .  .  . 

Pym.  Ay,  the  Court  gives  out 

His  own  concerns  have  brought  him  back  :   I  know 
'T  is  the  King  calls  him :   Wentworth  supersedes 
The  tribe  of  Cottingtons  and  Hamiltons 
Whose  part  is  played  ;  there  's  talk  enough,  by  this,  — 
Merciful  talk,  the  King  thinks  :  time  is  now 
To  turn  the  record's  last  and  bloody  leaf 
That,  chronicling  a  nation's  great  despair. 
Tells  they  were  long  rebellious,  and  their  lord 
Indulgent,  till,  all  kind  expedients  tried, 
He  drew  the  sword  on  them  and  reigned  in  peace. 
Laud  's  laying  his  religion  on  the  Scots 
Was  the  last  gentle  entry  :  the  new  page 
Shall  run,  the  King  thinks,  "  Wentworth  thrust  it  down 
At  the  sword's  point." 

A  Puritan.  I  '11  do  your  bidding,  Pym, 

England's  and  God's  —  one  blow  I 

Pym.  A  goodly  thing  — 

We  all  say,  friends,  it  is  a  goodly  thing 
To  right  that  England.     Heaven  grows  dark  above  : 
Let 's  snatch  one  moment  ere  the  thunder  fall, 
To  say  how  well  the  English  spirit  comes  out 
Beneath  it  I     All  have  done  their  best,  indeed. 


131  STRAFFORD 

From  lion  Elijt,  that  grand  Englishman, 

To  the  least  here :  and  who,  the  least  one  here, 

When  she  is  saved  (for  her  redemption  dawns 

Dimly,  most  dhnly,  but  it  dawns  —  it  dawns) 

Who  'd  give  at  any  price  liis  hope  away 

Of  being  named  along  with  the  Great  Men  ? 

We  would  not  —  no,  we  would  not  give  that  up  ! 

Hump.  And  one  name  shall  be  dearer  than  all  names, 
When  children,  yet  unborn,  are  taught  that  name 
After  their  fathers',  —  taught  what  matchle.ss  man  .  .  . 

Pym.  .  .  .  Saved   England?     What   if  Wentworth's   should 
be  still 
That  name  ? 

Hud.  and  others.  We  have  just  said  it,  Pym  !     His  death 
Saves  her  !     We  said  it  —  there  's  no  way  beside  I 
I  '11  do  God's  bidding,  Pym  !     They  struck  down  Joab 
And  purged  the  land. 

Vane.  No  villanous  striking-down! 

Hud.  No,  a  calm  vengeance  :  let  the  whole  land  rise 
And  shout  for  it.     No  Feltons  ! 

F*  1/7)1.  Rudyard,  no  ! 

England  rejects  all  Feltons  ;  most  of  all 
Since  Wentworth  .   .  .  Hamjiden,  say  the  trust  again 
Of  England  in  her  servants  —  but  I  '11  think 
You  know  me,  all  of  you.     Then,  I  believe, 
Sj^ite  of  the  past,  Wentworth  rejoins  you,  friends  I 

Vane  and  others.    Wentworth  ?    Apostate !    Judas  !    Double^ 
dyed  ! 
A  traitor  !     Is  it  Pym,  indeed  .  .  . 

Pytn.  .  .  .  Who  says 

Vane  never  knew  that  Wentworth  loved  that  man, 
Was  used  to  stroll  with  him,  arm  locked  in  arm, 
Along  the  streets  to  see  the  people  pass 
And  read  in  every  island-countenance 
Fresh  argument  for  God  against  the  King,  — 
Never  sat  down,  say,  in  the  very  house 
Where  Eliot's  brow  grew  broad  with  noble  thoughts, 
(You  've  joined  us,  Hampden  —  HoUis,  you  as  well,) 
And  then  left  talking  over  Gracclius'  death  .  .  . 

Vane.  To  frame,  we  know  it  well,  the  choicest  clause 
In  the  Petition  of  Rights  :  he  framed  such  clause 
One  month  before  he  took  at  the  King's  hand 
His  Northern  Presidency,  which  tliat  Bill 
Denounced. 

Pym.         Too  true  !     Never  more,  never  more 
Walked  we  together  I     Most  alone  I  went. 


I 


STRAFFORD  135 

I  have  had  friends  —  all  here  are  fast  my  friends  — 

Bat  I  shall  never  quite  forget  that  friend. 

And  yet  it  could  not  but  be  real  in  him  ! 

You,  Vane,  —  you,  Rudyard,  have  no  right  to  trust 

To  Wentworth  :  but  can  no  one  hope  with  me  ? 

Hampden,  will  Wentworth  dare  shed  English  blood 

Like  water  ? 

Hump.         Ireland  is  Aceldama. 

JFijm.  Will  he  turn  Scotland  to  a  hunting-ground 
To  please  the  King,  now  that  he  knows  the  King  ? 
The  People  or  the  King  ?  and  that  King,  Charles  ! 

Hamp.   Pym,  all  here  know  you :  you  '11  not  set  your  heart 
On  any  baseless  dream.      But  say  one  deed 
Of  Wentworth's,  since  he  left  us  .   .   .  [Shouting  without. 

Vane.  There  !  he  comes, 

And  they  shout  for  him  !      Wentworth  's  at  Whitehall, 
Tlie  King  embracing  him,  now,  as  we  speak, 
And  he,  to  be  his  match  in  courtesies. 
Taking  the  whole  war's  risk  upon  himself. 
Now,  while  you  tell  us  here  how  changed  he  is  ! 
Hear  you  ? 

Fym.  And  yet  if 'tis  a  dream,  no  more, 

That  AVentworth  chose  their  side,  and  brought  the  King 
To  love  it  as  though  Laud  had  loved  it  first, 
And  the  Queen  after  ;  —  that  he  led  their  cause 
Calm  to  success,  and  kejit  it  spotless  through. 
So  that  our  very  eyes  could  look  upon 
The  travail  of  our  souls  and  close. content 
That  violence,  which  something  mars  even  rights 
AVliich  sanction  it,  had  taken  off  no  grace 
From  its  serene  regard.     Only  a  dream  ! 

Hcnnp.  We  meet  here  to  accomplish  certain  good 
By  obvious  means,  and  keep  tradition  uj) 
Of  free  assemblages,  else  obsolete, 
In  this  poor  chamber:  nor  without  effect 
Has  friend  met  friend  to  counsel  and  confirm, 
As,  listening  to  the  beats  of  England's  heart, 
We  spoke  its  wants  to  Scotland's  prompt  rejDly 
By  these  her  delegates.     Remains  alone 
That  word  grow  deed,  as  with  God's  help  it  shall  — 
But  with  the  devil's  hindrance,  who  doubts  too  ? 
Looked  we  op  no  that  tyranny  should  turn 
Her  engines  of  oppression  to  their  use  ? 
Whereof,  suppose  the  worst  be  Wentworth  here  — 
Shall  we  break  off  the  tactics  which  succeed 
In  drawing  out  our  formidablest  foe, 


136  STRAFFORD 

Let  bickering  and  disunion  take  their  place  ? 
Or  count  his  presence  as  our  conquest's  proof, 
And  keep  the  old  arms  at  their  steady  play  ? 
Proceed  to  England's  work !      Fiennes,  read  the  list ! 

Fiennes.  Ship-money  is  refused  or  fiercely  paid 
In  every  county,  save  the  northern  parts 
Where  Wentworth's  influence  .   .  .  \_Shouting. 

Va7ie.  I,  in  England's  name, 

Declare  her  work,  this  way,  at  end  !     Till  now. 
Up  to  this  moment,  peaceful  strife  was  best. 
We  P^ngiish  had  free  leave  to  think  ;  till  now, 
We  had  a  shadow  of  a  Parliament 

In  Scotland.     But  all 's  changed  :  they  change  the  first, 
They  try  brute-force  for  law,  they,  first  of  all  .  .  . 

Voices.  Good!   Talk  enough  !    The  old  true  hearts  with  Yane  ! 

Vane.  Till  we  crush  Wentworth  for  her,  there's  no  act 
Serves  England  ! 

Voices.  Vane  for  England  ! 

Pym.  Pjm  should  be 

Something  to  England.     I  seek  Wentworth,  friends. 


Scene  II.     Whitehall. 
Lady  Carlisle  and  Wentworth. 

Went.  And  the  King  ? 

Lady  Car.  Wentworth,  lean  on  me  !     Sit  then  ! 

I  '11  tell  you  all ;  this  horrible  fatigue 
Will  kill  you. 

Went.  No  ;  —  or,  Lucy,  just  your  arm  ; 

I  '11  not  sit  till  I  've  cleared  this  up  with  him : 
After  that,  rest.     The  King  ? 

Lady  Car.  Confides  in  you. 

Went.  Why  ?  or,  why  now  ?  —  They  have  kind  throats,  the 
knaves ! 
Shout  for  me  —  they  ! 

Lady  Car.  You  come  so  strangely  soon  : 

Yet  we  took  measures  to  keep  off  the  crowd  — 
Did  they  shout  for  you  ? 

Went.  Wherefore  should  they  not  ? 

Does  the  King  take  such  measures  for  himself  ? 
Beside,  there  's  such  a  dearth  of  malcontents. 
You  say ! 

Lady  Car.     I  said  but  few  dared  carp  at  you. 

Went.  At  me  ?  at  us,  I  hope  !     The  King  and  I  ! 


STRAFFORD  137 

He  's  surely  not  disposed  to  let  me  bear 
The  fame  away  from  him  of  these  late  deeds 
In  Ireland  ?    I  am  yet  his  instrument 
Be  it  for  well  or  ill  ?     He  trusts  me,  too ! 

Lady  Car.  The  King,  dear  Wentworth,  purposes,  I  said, 
To  grant  you,  in  the  face  of  all  the  Court  .... 

Went.  All  the  Court !     Evermore  the  Court  about  us ! 
Savile  and  Holland.  Hamilton  and  Vane 
About  us,  —  then  the  King  will  grant  me  —  what  ? 
That  he  for  once  put  these  aside  and  say  — 
'  Tell  me  your  whole  mind,  Wentworth  !  " 

Lady  Car.  You  professed 

You  would  be  calm. 

Werit.  Lucy,  and  I  am  calm  ! 

How  else  shall  I  do  all  I  come  to  do, 
Broken,  as  you  may  see,  body  and  mind. 
How  shall  I  serve  the  King  ?     Time  wastes  meanwhile, 
You  have  not  told  me  half.     His  footstep  !     No. 
Quick,  then,  before  I  meet  him,  —  I  am  calm  — 
Why  does  the  King  distrust  me  ? 

Lady  Car.  He  does  not 

Distrust  you. 

Went.  Lucy,  you  can  help  me  ;  you 

Have  even  seemed  to  care  for  me  :  one  word ! 
Is  it  the  Queen  ? 

Lady  Car.  No,  not  the  Queen :  the  party 
That  poisons  the  Queen's  ear,  Savile  and  Holland. 

Went.  I  know,  I  know  :  old  Vane,  too,  he  's  one  too  ? 
Go  on  —  and  he  's  made  Secretary.     Well  ? 
Or  leave  them  out  and  go  straight  to  the  charge  ; 
The  charge  ! 

Lady  Car.  Oh,  there  's  no  charge,  no  precise  charge  ; 
Only  they  sneer,  make  light  of  —  one  may  say. 
Nibble  at  what  you  do. 

Went.  I  know  I  but,  Lucy, 

I  reckoned  on  you  from  the  first !  —  Go  on  ! 
—  Was  sure  could  I  once  see  this  gentle  friend 
When  I  arrived,  she  'd  throw  an  hour  away 
To  help  her  .  .  .  what  am  I  ? 

Lady  Car.  You  thought  of  me. 

Dear  Wentworth? 

Went.  But  go  on  !     The  party  here  ! 

Lady  Car.  They  do  not  think  your  Irish  Government 
Of  that  surpassing  value  .  .  . 

Went.  The  one  thing 

Of  value  !     The  one  service  that  the  crown 


138  STRAFFORD 

May  count  on !     All  that  keeps  these  very  Vanes 
In  power,  to  vex  me  —  not  that  they  do  vex, 
Only  it  might  vex  some  to  hear  that  service 
Decried,  the  sole  supjDort  that 's  left  the  King  ! 

Lady  Car.  So  the  Archbishop  says. 

Went.  Ah  ?  well,  perhaps 

The  only  hand  held  up  in  my  defence 
May  be  old  Laud's !      These  Hollands  then,  these  Saviles 
Nibble  ?     They  nibble  ?  —  that 's  the  very  word  ! 

Lady  Car.  Your  profit  in  the  Customs,  Bristol  says, 
Exceeds  the  due  proportion  :  while  the  tax  .  .   . 

Went.  Enough  !   't  is  too  unworthy,  —  I  am  not 
So  patient  as  I  thought  I     What 's  Pym  about  ? 

Jjady  Car.  Pym ! 

Went.  Pym  and  the  People. 

Lady  Car.  Oh,  the  Faction  1 

Extinct  —  of  no  account :  there  '11  never  be 
Another  Parliament. 

Went.  Tell  Savile  that ! 

You  may  know  —  (ay,  you  do  —  the  creatures  here 
Never  forget !)  that  in  my  earliest  life 
I  was  not  .  .  .  much  that  I  am  now !     The  Kingr 
May  take  my  word  on  points  concerning  Pym 
Before  Lord  Savile's,  Lucy,  or  if  not, 
I  bid  them  ruin  their  wise  selves,  not  me, 
These  Vanes  and  Hollands  !     I  '11  not  be  their  tool 
Who  might  be  Pym's  friend  yet. 

But  there  's  the  King  ! 
Where  is  he  ? 

Lady  Car.  Just  apprised  that  you  arrive. 

Went.  And  why  not  here  to  meet  me  ?     I  was  told 
He  sent  for  me,  nay,  longed  for  me. 

Lady  Car.  Because, — 

He  is  now  ...  I  think  a  Council 's  sitting  now 
About  this  Scots  affair. 

Wei}t.  A  Council  sits  ? 

They  have  not  taken  a  decided  course 
Without  me  in  the  matter  ? 

Lady  Car.  I  should  say  .  .  . 

Went.  The  war  ?     They  cannot  have  agreed  to  that  ? 
Not  the  Scots'  war  ?  —  without  consultins:  me  — 
Me,  that  am  here  to  show  how  rash  it  is. 
How  easy  to  (lis])ense  with  ?  —  Ah,  you  too 
Against  me  !  well,  —  the  King  may  take  his  time. 
—  F'orget  it,  Lucy  !      Cares  make  peevish  :  mine 
Weigh  me  (but 't  is  a  secret)  to  my  grave. 


STRAFFORD  139 

Lady  Car.     For  life  or  death  I  am  your  own,  dear  friend  ! 

\_Goes  out. 

Went.   Heartless  I  but  all  are  heartless  here.     Go  now, 
Forsake  the  People  !  —  I  did  not  forsake 
The  People  :  they  shall  know  it  —  when  the  King 
AVill  trust  me  !  —  who  trusts  all  beside  at  once, 
While  I  have  not  spoke  Vane  and  Savile  fair. 
And  am  not  trusted  :  have  but  saved  the  throne  : 
Have  not  picked  up  the  Queen's  glove  prettily, 
And  am  not  trusted.     But  he  '11  see  me  now. 
Weston  is  dead  :  the  Queen  's  half  English  now  — 
More  English  :  one  decisive  word  will  brush 
These  insects  from  .  .   .  the  step  I  know  so  well ! 
The  King  I     But  now,  to  tell  him  .  .   .  no  —  to  ask 
What 's  in  me  he  distrusts  :  —  or,  best  begin 
By  proving  that  this  frightful  Scots  affair 
Is  just  what  I  foretold.     So  much  to  say, 
And  the  flesh  fails,  now,  and  the  time  is  come, 
And  one  false  step  no  way  to  be  repaired  ! 
You  were  avenged,  Pym,  could  you  look  on  me. 

(Pym  enters.) 

Went.  I  little  thought  of  you  just  then. 

F7/7n.  No?  I 

Think  always  of  you,  Wentworth. 

Went.  The  old  voice  ! 

I  wait  the  King,  sir. 

Pym.  True  —  you  look  so  pale  ! 

A  Council  sits  within  ;  when  that  breaks  up 
He  '11  see  you. 

Went.  Sir,  I  thank  you. 

Fyin.  Oh,  thank  Laud  ! 

You  know  when  Laud  once  gets  on  Church  affairs 
The  case  is  desperate  :   he  '11  not  be  long 
To-day  :  he  only  means  to  prove,  to-day, 
We  English  all  are  mad  to  have  a  hand 
Li  butchering  the  Scots  for  serving  God 
After  their  fathers'  fashion  :  only  that  I 

Went.  Sir,  keep  your  jests  for  those  who  relish  them  ! 
(Does  he  enjoy  their  confidence?)      'T  is  kind 
To  tell  me  what  the  Council  does. 

Pym.  You  grudge 

That  I  should  know  it  had  resolved  on  war 
Before  you  came  ?  no  need :  you  shall  have  all 
The  credit,  trust  me  ! 

Went.  Have  the  Council  dared  — 


140  STRAFFORD 

They  have  not  dared  .  .  .  that  is  —  I  know  you  not. 
Farewell,  sir  :  times  are  changed. 

Pym.  —  Since  we  two  met 

At  Greenwich  ?     Yes  :  poor  patriots  though  we  be, 
You  cut  a  figure,  makes  some  slight  return 
For  your  exploits  in  Ireland  I      Changed  indeed, 
Could  our  friend  Eliot  look  from  out  his  grave ! 
Ah,  Wentworth,  one  thing  for  acquaintance'  sake, 
Just  to  decide  a  question  ;  have  you,  now, 
Felt  your  old  self  since  you  forsook  us  ? 

Went,  Sir ! 

Pym.  Spare  me  the  gesture !  you  misapprehend  ! 
Think  not  I  mean  the  advantage  is  with  me. 
I  was  about  to  say  that,  for  my  part, 
I  never  quite  held  up  my  head  since  then  — 
Was  quite  myself  since  then  :  for  first,  you  see, 
I  lost  all  credit  after  that  event 
With  those  who  recollect  how  sure  I  was 
Wentworth  woidd  outdo  Eliot  on  our  side. 
Forgive  me  :  Savile,  old  Vane,  Holland  here, 
Eschew  plain-speaking  :   'tis  a  trick  I  keep. 

Went.  How,  when,  where,  Savile,  Vane,  and  Holland  speak, 
Plainly  or  otherwise,  would  have  my  scorn. 
All  of  my  scorn,  sir  .  .  . 

Pym.  .  .  .  Did  not  my  poor  thoughts 

Claim  somewhat  ? 

Went.  Keep  your  thoughts  !   believe  the  King 

Mistrusts  me  for  their  prattle,  all  these  Vanes 
And  Saviles  !  make  your  mind  up,  o'  God's  love, 
That  I  am  discontented  with  the  King  ! 

Pym.  Why,  you  may  be  :  I  should  be,  that  I  know, 
Were  I  like  you. 

Went.  Like  me  ? 

Pym.  I  care  not  much 

For  titles  :  our  friend  Eliot  died  no  lord, 
Hampden  's  no  lord,  and  Savile  is  a  lord  ; 
But  you  cai  e,  since  you  sold  your  soul  for  one. 
I  can't  think,  therefore,  your  soul's  purchaser 
Did  well  to  laugh  you  to  such  utter  scorn 
Wlien  you  twice  i)rayed  so  lunnbly  for  its  price. 
The  thirty  silver  pieces  ...   I  should  say, 
The  Earldom  you  expected,  still  ex])ect. 
And  may.      Your  letters  were  the  movingest ! 
Console  yourself  :   I  've  borne  him  prayers  just  now 
From  Scotland  not  to  be  oppressed  by  Laud, 


STRAFFORD  141 

Words  moving  in  their  way  :  he  '11  pay,  be  sure, 
As  much  attention  as  to  those  you  sent. 

Went.    False,  sir !     Who  showed  them  you  ?     Suppose  it  so, 
The  King  did  very  well  .  .  .  nay,  I  was  glad 
When  it  was  shown  me  :   I  refused,  the  first ! 
John  Pyni,  you  were  my  friend  —  forbear  me  once  ! 

Pym.  Oh,  Wentworth,  ancient  brother  of  my  soul, 
That  all  should  come  to  this  ! 

Went.  Leave  me  ! 

Pym.  My  friend, 

Why  should  I  leave  you  ? 

Went.  To  tell  Rudyard  this. 

And  Hampden  this  ! 

Pi/m.  Whose  faces  once  were  bright 

At  my  approach,  now  sad  with  doubt  and  fear, 
Because  I  hope  in  you  —  yes,  Wentworth,  you 
Who  never  mean  to  ruin  England  —  you 
Who  shake  otf,  with  God's  help,  an  obscene  dream 
In  this  Ezekiel  chamber,  where  it  crept 
Upon  you  first,  and  wake,  yourself,  your  true 
And  proper  self,  our  Leader,  England's  Chief, 
And  Hampden's  friend ! 

This  is  the  proudest  day ! 
Come,  Wentworth  I     Do  not  even  see  the  King ! 
The  rough  old  room  will  seem  itself  again ! 
We  '11  both  go  in  together  :   you  've  not  seen 
Hampden  so  long :  come :  and  there  's  Fiennes  :  you  '11  have 
To  know  young  Vane.     This  is  the  proudest  day  ! 

[The  King  enters.     Wentworth  lets  fall  Pfm's  hand. 

Clia.  Arrived,  my  lord  ?  —  This  gentleman,  we  know- 
Was  your  old  friend. 

The  Scots  shall  be  informed 
What  we  determine  for  their  happiness. 

[Pym  goes  out. 
You  have  made  haste,  my  lord. 

Went.  Sir,  I  am  come  .  .  . 

Cha.  To  see  an  old  familiar  —  nay,  't  is  well  ; 
Aid  us  with  his  experience  :  this  Scots'  League 
And  Covenant  spreads  too  far,  and  we  have  proofs 
That  they  intrigue  with  France  :  the  Faction  too. 
Whereof  your  friend  there  is  the  head  and  front, 
Abets  them.  —  as  he  boasted,  very  like. 

Went.  Sir,  trust  me  I   but  for  this  once,  trust  me,  sir  ! 

Cha.  What  can  you  mean  ? 

Went.  That  you  should  trust  me,  sir ! 

Oh  —  not  for  my  sake  I  but  't  is  sad,  so  sad 


142  STRAFFORD 

That  for  distrusting  me,  you  suffer  —  you 
Whom  I  would  die  to  serve  :  sir,  do  you  think 
That  I  would  die  to  serve  you  ? 

Cha.  But  rise,  Wentworth  I 

Went.  What  shall  convince  you  ?     What  does  Savile  do 
To  prove  him  .  .  .  Ah,  one  can't  tear  out  one's  heart 
And  show  it,  how  sincere  a  thing  it  is  ! 

Cha,  Have  I  not  trusted  you  ? 

Went.  Say  aught  but  that ! 

There  is  my  comfort,  mark  you :  all  will  be 
So  different  when  you  trust  me  —  as  you  shall ! 
It  has  not  been  your  fault,  —  I  was  away, 
Mistook,  maligned,  how  was  the  King  to  know  ? 
I  am  here,  now  —  he  means  to  trust  me,  now  — 
All  will  go  on  so  well ! 

Cha.  Be  sure  I  do  — 

I  've  heard  that  I  should  trust  you  :  as  you  came, 
Your  friend,  the  Countess,  told  me  .  .  . 

Went.  No,  —  hear  nothing  — 

Be  told  nothing  about  me  !  —  you  're  not  told 
Your  right  hand  serves  you,  or  your  children  love  you  ! 

Cha.  You  love  me,  Wentworth :  rise ! 

Went.  I  can  speak  now. 

I  have  no  right  to  hide  the  truth.     'T  is  1 
Can  save  you  :  only  I.     Sir,  what  must  be  ? 

Cha.  Since  Laud  's  assured  (the  minutes  are  within) 
—  Loath  as  I  am  to  spill  my  subjects'  blood  ... 

Went.  That  is,  he  '11  have  a  war  :  what 's  done  is  done  ! 

Cha.  They  have  intrigued  w^ith  France  ;  that 's  clear  to  Lau.l. 

Went.  Has  Laud  suggested  any  way  to  meet 
The  war's  expense  ? 

Cha.  He  'd  not  decide  so  far 

Until  you  joined  us. 

Went.  Most  considerate ! 

He  's  certain  they  intrigue  with  France,  these  Scots  ? 
The  People  would  be  with  us. 

Cha.  Pyni  should  know. 

Went.  The  People  for  us  —  were  the  People  for  us  ! 
Sir,  a  great  thought  comes  to  reward  your  trust : 
Summon  a  Parliament !  in  Ireland  first, 
Then,  here. 

CJia.  In  truth  ? 

Went.  Tliat  saves  us  !  that  puts  off 

The  war,  gives  time  to  right  their  grievances  — 
To  talk  with  Pym.     I  know  the  Faction,  as 
Laud  styles  it,  tutors  Scotland  :  all  their  plans 


STRAFFORD  145 

Suppose  no  Parliament :  in  calling  one 
You  take  them  by  surprise.     Produce  the  proofs 
Of  Scotland's  treason  ;  then  bid  England  help  : 
Even  Pyni  will  not  refuse. 

Cha.  You  would  begin 

With  Ireland  ? 

Went.  Take  no  care  for  that :  that 's  sure 

To  prosper. 

Cha.  You  shall  rule  me.     You  were  best 

Return  at  once  :  but  take  this  ere  you  go  ! 
Now,  do  I  trust  you  ?     You  're  an  Earl :  my  Friend 
Of  Friends  :  yes,  while  .  .  .  You  hear  me  not ! 

Went.   Say  it  all  o'er  again  —  but  once  again  : 
The  first  was  for  the  music  —  once  again  ! 

Cha.    Strafford,  my  friend,  there  may  have  been  reports, 
Vain  rumors.     Henceforth  touching  Strafford  is 
To  touch  the  apple  of  my  sight :   why  gaze 
So  earnestly  ? 

Went.  I  am  grown  young  again, 

And  foolish.     What  was  it  we  spoke  of  ? 

Cha.  Ireland  — 

The  Parliament,  — 

Went.  I  may  go  when  I  will  ? 

—  Now  ? 

Cha.     Are  you  tired  so  soon  of  us  ? 

Went.  My  King ! 

But  you  will  not  so  utterly  abhor 
A  Parliament  ?     I  'd  serve  you  any  way. 

CJia.  You  said  just  now  this  was  the  only  way. 

Went.  Sir,  I  will  serve  you  ! 

Cha.  Strafford,  spare  yourself  — 

You  are  so  sick,  they  tell  me. 

Went.  'T  is  my  soul  , 

That 's  well  and  prospers  now. 

This  Parliament  — 
We  '11  summon  it,  the  English  one  —  I  '11  care 
For  everything.     You  shall  not  need  them  much. 

Cha.  If  they  prove  restive  .  .   . 

Went.  I  shall  be  with  you. 

Cha.  Ere  they  assemble  ? 

Went.  I  will  come,  or  else 

Deposit  this  infirm  humanity 
I'  the  dust.     My  whole  heart  stays  with  you,  my  King  I 

\_As  Wentworth  goes  out,  the  Queen  enters. 

Cha.  That  man  must  love  me. 

Queen.  Is  it  over  then  ? 


144  STRAFFORD 

Why,  he  looks  yellower  than  ever  !     Well, 

At  least  we  shall  not  hear  eternally 

Of  service  —  services  :  he  's  f>aid  at  least. 

Cha.  Not  done  with  :  he  engages  to  surpass 
All  yet  pert'oriued  in  Ireland. 

Queen.  I  had  thought 

Nothing  beyond  was  ever  to  be  done. 
The  war,  Charles  —  will  he  raise  supj^lies  enough  ? 

Cha.  We  've  hit  on  an  expedient ;  he  .  .  .  that  is, 
I  have  advised  .  .  .  we  have  decided  on 
The  calling  —  in  Ireland  —  of  a  Parliament. 

Queen.  O  truly  !     You  agree  to  that  ?     Is  that 
The  first-fruit  of  his  counsel  i'     But  I  guessed 
As  much. 

Cha.         This  is  too  idle,  Henriette  ! 
I  should  know  best.     He  will  strain  every  nerve, 
And  once  a  precedent  established  .  .  . 

Queen.  Notice 

How  sure  he  is  of  a  long  term  of  favor  ! 
He  '11  see  the  next,  and  the  next  after  that ; 
No  end  to  Parliaments  ! 

Cha.  Well,  it  is  done. 

He  talks  it  smoothly,  doubtless.     If,  indeed, 
The  Commons  here  .   .  . 

Queen.  Here  !  you  will  summon  them 

Here  ?     Would  I  were  in  France  again  to  see 
A  King ! 

Cha.       But,  Henriette  .  .  . 

Queen.  Oh,  the  Scots  see  clear  ! 

Why  should  they  bear  your  rule  ? 

Cha.  But  listen,  sweet ! 

Queen.  Let  Wentworth  listen  —  you  confide  in  him  ! 

Cha.  I  do  not,  love,  —  I  do  not  so  confide  ! 
The  Parliament  shall  never  trouble  us ! 

.  .  Nay,  hear  me  !    I  have  schemes,  such  schemes  :  we  '11  buy 
The  leaders  off :  without  that,  Wentworth's  counsel 
Had  ne'er  ])revailed  on  me.     Perhaps  I  call  it 
To  have  excuse  for  breaking  it  forever, 
And  whose  will  then  the  blame  be  ?     See  you  not  ? 
Come,  dearest,  —  look  !   the  little  fairy,  now. 
That  cannot  reach  my  shoulder  !     Dearest,  come  ! 


J 


STRAFFORD  145 

ACT  11. 

ScEXE  I.    (As  in  Act  I.  Scene  I.) 
The  same  Party  enters. 

Hud.  Twelve  subsidies  ! 

Vam.  O  Rudyard,  do  not  lau-h 

At  least ! 

End.     True  :  Strafford  called  the  Parliament  — 
'T  is  he  should  laugh  ! 

A  Paritan.  Out  of  the  serpent's  root 

Comes  forth  a  cockatrice. 

Flen.  —  A  stinging  one, 

If  that 's  the  Parhament :  twelve  subsidies  ! 
A  stinging  one  !  but,  brother,  where  's  your  word 
For  Strafford's  other  nest-egg,  the  Scots'  war  ? 

The  Puritan.  His  fruit  shall  be  a  fiery  flying  serpent. 

Fien.   Shall  be  ?    It  chips  the  shell,  man  ;  peeps  abroad. 
Twelve  subsidies  !  —  Why  !  how  now,  Vane  ? 

Rud.  Peace,  Fiennes  ! 

Fien.  Ah  ?  —  But  he  was  not  more  a  dupe  than  I, 
Or  you,  or  any  here,  the  day  that  Pym 
Returned  with  the  good  news.     Look  up,  friend  Vane  ! 
We  all  believed  that  Strafford  meant  us  well 
In  summoning  the  Parliament. 

(Hampden  enters.^ 

Vane.  Now,  Hampden, 

Clear  me  !     I  would  have  leave  to  sleep  again : 
I  'd  look  the  People  in  the  face  again  : 
Clear  me  from  having,  from  the  first,  hoped,  dreamed 
Better  of  Strafford  ! 

Haiiij).  You  may  grow  one  day 

A  steadfast  light  to  England,  Henry  Vane  ! 

Pud.  Meantime,  by  flashes  I  make  shift  to  see 
Strafford  revived  our  Parliaments  ;  before. 
War  was  but  talked  of  ;  there  's  an  army,  now  : 
Still,  we  've  a  Parliament !     Poor  Ireland  bears 
Another  wrench  (she  dies  the  hardest  death !)  — 
Why,  speak  of  it  in  Parliament !  and  lo, 
'T  is  spoken,  so  console  yourselves  I 

Fien.  The  jest ! 

We  clamored,  I  suppose,  thus  long,  to  win 
The  privilege  of  laying  on  our  backs 
A  sorer  burden  than  the  King  dares  lay  !  '^       ' . 


146  STRAFFORD 

Rud.  Mark  now  :  we  meet  at  length,  complaints  pour  in 
From  every  county,  all  the  land  cries  out 
On  loans  and  levies,  curses  ship-money, 
Calls  vengeance  on  the  Star-chamber ;  we  lend 
An  ear.     ''  Ay,  lend  them  all  the  ears  you  have  !  " 
Puts  in  the  King  ;   "  my  subjects,  as  you  find, 
Are  fretful,  and  conceive  great  things  of  you. 
Just  listen  to  them,  friends  ;  you  '11  sanction  me 
The  measures  they  most  wince  at,  make  them  yours, 
Instead  of  mine,  I  know  :   and,  to  begin. 
They  say  my  levies  pinch  them,  —  raise  me  straight 
Twelve  subsidies  !  " 

Flen.  All  England  cannot  furnish 

Twelve  subsidies  ! 

Hoi.  But  Strafford,  just  returned 

From  Ireland  —  what  has  he  to  do  with  that  ? 
How  could  he  speak  his  mind  ?     He  left  before 
The  Parliament  assembled.     Pym,  who  knows 
Strafford  .  .  . 

jRud.  Would  I  were  sure  we  know  ourselves  ! 

What  is  for  good,  what,  bad  —  who  friend,  who  foe  ! 

Hoi.  Do  you  count  Parliaments  no  gain  ? 

Rud.  A  gain  ? 

While  the  Kincr's  creatures  overbalance  us  ? 
—  There  's  going  on,  beside,  among  ourselves 
A  quiet,  slow,  but  most  effectual  course 
Of  buying  over,  sapping,  leavening 
The  lump  till  all  is  leaven.     Glanville  's  gone. 
I  '11  put  a  case  ;  had  not  the  Court  declared 
That  no  sum  short  of  just  twelve  subsidies 
Will  be  accepted  by  the  King  —  our  House, 
I  say,  would  have  consented  to  that  offer 
To  let  us  buy  off  ship-money  ! 

Hoi.  Most  like, 

If,  say,  six  subsidies  will  buy  it  off. 
The  House  .  .  . 

Rud.  AVill  grant  them  !     Hampden,  do  you  hear  ? 

Congratulate  with  me  !  the  King 's  the  king, 
And  gains  his  point  at  last  —  our  own  assent 
To  that  detested  tax  !     All 's  over,  then  ! 
There  's  no  more  taking  refuge  in  this  room. 
Protesting,  '•  Let  the  King  do  what  he  will. 
We,  England,  are  no  party  to  our  shame : 
Our  day  will  come  !  "     Congratulate  with  me  ! 


STRAFFORD  147 

(Pym  enters.) 

Vane.  Pym,  Strafford  called  this  Parliament,  you  say, 
But  we  '11  not  have  our  Parliaments  like  those 
In  Ireland,  Pym  ! 

Rial.  Let  him  stand  forth,  your  friend  ! 

One  doubtful  act  hides  far  too  many  sins  ; 
It  can  be  stretched  no  more,  and,  to  my  mind. 
Begins  to  drop  from  those  it  covered. 

Other  Voices.  Good  ! 

Let  him  avow  himself  !     No  fitter  time  ! 
We  wait  thus  long  for  you. 

Rud.  Perhaps,  too  long  ! 

Since  nothing  but  the  madness  of  the  Court, 
In  thus  unmasking  its  designs  at  once, 
Has  saved  us  from  betraying  England.     Stay  — 
This  Parliament  is  Strafford's  :  let  us  vote 
Our  list  of  grievances  too  black  by  far 
To  suffer  talk  of  subsidies :  or  best. 
That  ship-money  's  disposed  of  long  ago 
By  England  :  any  vote  that 's  broad  enough : 
And  then  let  Strafford,  for  the  love  of  it, 
Support  his  Parliament ! 

Vane.  And  vote  as  well 

No  war  to  be  with  Scotland  !     Hear  you,  Pym  ? 
We  '11  vote,  no  war  !     No  part  nor  lot  in  it 
For  England  ! 

Many  Voices.  Vote,  no  war  !     Stop  the  new  levies  ! 
No  Bishops'  war  !     At  once  !     When  next  we  meet ! 

Pym.  Much  more  when  next  we  meet !     Friends,  which  of 
you 
Since  first  the  course  of  Strafford  was  in  doubt. 
Has  fallen  the  most  away  in  soul  from  me  ? 

Vane.  I  sat  apart,  even  now,  under  God's  eye. 
Pondering  the  words  that  should  denounce  you,  Pym, 
In  presence  of  us  all,  as  one  at  league 
With  England's  enemy. 

Pym.  You  are  a  good 

And  gallant  spirit,  Henry.     Take  my  hand 
And  say  you  pardon  me  for  all  the  pain 
Till  now  !      Strafford  is  wholly  ours. 

Many  Voices.  Sure?  sure? 

Pym.  INIost  sure  :  for  Charles  dissolves  the  Parliament 
While  I  speak  here. 

—  And  I  must  speak,  friends,  now ! 
Strafford  is  ours.     The  King  detects  the  chano^e. 


148 


STRAFFORD 


Casts  Strafford  off  forever,  and  resumes 
His  ancient  jiath  :  no  Parliament  for  us, 
No  Strafford  for  the  Kintr ! 

Come,  all  of  you, 
To  bid  the  King  farewell,  predict  success 
To  his  Scots'  expedition,  and  receive 
Strafford,  our  comrade  now.     The  next  will  be 
Indeed  a  Parliament ! 

Vane.  Forgive  me,  Pym  ! 

^  Voices.  This  looks  like  truth  :  Strafford  can  have,  indeed, 
No  choice. 

Pym.  Friends,  follow  me  !     He  's  with  the  King. 

Come,  Hampden,  and  come,  Rudyard,  and  come,  Vane  ! 
This  is  no  sullen  day  for  England,  sirs  ! 
Strafford  shall  tell  you ! 

Voices.  To  Whitehall  then !     Come  ! 


Scene  II.    Whitehall. 
Charles  and  Strafford. 

Cha.  Strafford! 

Straf.  Is  it  a  dream  ?  my  papers,  here  — 

Thus,  as  I  left  them,  all  the  plans  you  found 
So  happy  —  (look !  the  track  you  pressed  my  hand 
For  pointing  out)  —  and  in  this  very  room, 
Over  these  very  plans,  you  tell  me,  sir. 
With  the  same  face,  too  —  tell  me  just  one  thing 
That  ruins  them  !     How  's  this  ?     What  may  this  mean  ? 
Sir,  who  has  done  this  ? 

Cha.  Strafford,  who  but  I  ? 

You  bade  me  put  the  rest  away  :  indeed 
You  are  alone. 

Straf.  Alone,  and  like  to  be  ! 

No  fear,  when  some  unworthy  scheme  grows  ripe, 
Of  those,  who  hatched  it,  leaving  me  to  loose 
The  mischief  on  the  world  !      Laud  hatches  war. 
Falls  to  his  ])rayers,  and  leaves  the  rest  to  me  ; 
And  I  'm  alone. 

Cha.  At  least,  you  knew  as  much 

When  first  you  undertook  the  war. 

Straf.  My  liege,  - 

Was  tliis  the  way  ?     I  said,  since  Laud  would  lap 
A  little  blood,  't  were  best  to  hurry  over 
The  loathsome  business,  not  to  be  whole  months 


STRA  FFORD  149 

At  slaughter  —  one  blow,  only  one,  then,  peace, 

Save  for  the  dreams.      I  said,  to  please  you  both 

I  'd  lead  an  Irish  army  to  the  West, 

While  in  the  South  an  P^nglish  .  .  .  but  you  look 

As  though  you  had  not  told  me  fifty  times 

'T  was  a  brave  plan  I     My  army  is  all  raised, 

I  am  prepared  to  join  it  .   .  . 

Cha.  Hear  me,  Strafford  I 

Struf.  .  .  .  When,  for  some  little  thing,  my  whole  design 
Is  set  aside  —  (where  is  the  wretched  paper  ?) 
I  am  to  lead  —  (ay,  here  it  is)  —  to  lead 
The  English  army  :  why  ?     Northumberland 
That  I  appointed,  chooses  to  be  sick  — 
Is  frightened  :  and,  meanwhile,  who  answers  for 
The  Irish  Parliament  ?  or  army,  either  ? 
Is  this  my  plan  ? 

Cha.  So  disrespectful,  sir  ? 

Straf.  My  liege,  do  not  believe  it  I     I  am  yours, 
Yours  ever  :   't  is  too  late  to  think  about : 
To  the  death,  yours.     Elsewhere,  this  untoward  step 
Shall  pass  for  mine  ;  the  world  shall  think  it  mine. 
But,  here  I     But,  here  I     I  am  so  seldom  here. 
Seldom  with  you,  my  King  !     I,  soon  to  rush 
Alone  upon  a  giant  in  the  dark  ! 

Cha.   My  Strafford! 

Straf.  [examines pajyers  aivhile.]     "Seize  the  passes  of  the 
Tyne!" 
But,  sir,  you  see  —  see  all  I  say  is  true  ? 
My  plan  was  sure  to  prosper,  so,  no  cause 
To  ask  the  Parliament  for  help ;  whereas 
We  need  them  frightfully. 

Cha.  Need  the  Parliament  ? 

Straf.  Now,  for  God's  sake,  sir,  not  one  error  more ! 
We  can  afford  no  error  ;  we  draw,  now, 
Upon  our  last  resource  :  the  Parliament 
Must  help  us  ! 

Cha.  I  've  undone  you,  Strafford  ! 

Straf.  Nay  — 

Nay  —  why  despond,  sir  ;    't  is  not  come  to  that ! 
I  have  not  hurt  you  ?     Sir,  what  have  I  said 
To  hurt  you  ?     I  unsay  it !      Don't  desjDond  ! 
Sir,  do  you  turn  from  me  ? 

Cha.  My  friend  of  friends  ! 

Straf  We  '11  make  a  shift.     Leave  me  the  Parliament ! 
Help  they  us  ne'er  so  little  and  I  "11  make 
Sufficient  out  of  it.     We  '11  speak  them  fair. 


150  STRAFFORD 

They  're  sitting,  that  's  one  great  thing  ;  that  half  gives 
Their  san3tion  to  us  ;  that 's  much  :   don't  despond  ! 
Why,  let  them  keep  their  money,  at  the  worst  ! 
The  reputation  of  the  People's  helj) 
Is  all  we  want :  we  '11  make  shift  yet ! 

Cha.  Good  Strafford ! 

Straf.  But  meantime,  let  the  sum  be  ne'er  so  small 
They  offer,  we  '11  accei)t  it :  any  sum  — 
For  the  look  of  it :  the  least  grant  tells  the  Scots 
The  Parliament  is  ours  —  their  stanch  ally 
Turned  ours  :  that  told,  there  's  half  the  blow  to  strike  ! 
What  will  the  grant  be  ?     What  does  Glanville  think  ? 

Cha.  Alas  ! 

Straf.  My  liege  ? 

Cha.  Strafford  i 

Straf.  But  answer  me  ! 

Have  they  .  .  .  O  surely  not  refused  us  half  ? 
Half  the  twelve  subsidies  ?     We  never  looked 
For  all  of  them.     How  many  do  they  give  ? 
Cha.  You  have  not  heard  .  .  . 

Straf.  (What  has  he  done  ?)  —  Heard  what  ? 

But  speak  at  once,  sir,  this  grows  terrible ! 

[  The  King  continuing  silent. 

You  have  dissolved  them  !  —  I  '11  not  leave  this  man. 

Cha.  'T  was  old  Vane's  ill-judged  vehemence. 

Straf  Old  Vane  ? 

Cha.    He  told  them,  just  about  to  vote  the  half, 
That  nothing  short  of  all  twelve  subsidies 
Would  serve  our  turn,  or  be  accepted. 

Straf  Vane ! 

Vane !     Who,  sir,  promised  me  that  very  Vane  .  .  . 
O  God,  to  have  it  gone,  quite  gone  fi*om  me. 
The  one  last  hope  —  I  that  despair,  my  hojie  — 
That  I  should  reach  his  heart  one  day,  and  cure 
All  bitterness  one  day,  be  proud  again 
And  youno-  again,  care  for  the  sunshine  too, 
And  never  think  of  Eliot  any  more,  — 
God,  and  to  toil  for  this,  go  far  for  this. 
Get  nearer,  and  still  nearer,  reach  this  heart 
And  find  Vane  there  ! 
\_Suddenly  taking  up  a  paper,  and  continuing  with  a  forced  calmness 

Northumberland  is  sick  : 
Well,  then,  I  take  the  army :  Wilmot  leads 
The  horse,  and  he,  with  Conway,  must  secure 
The  j)asses  of  the  Tyne  :  Ormond  sup})lies 
My  place  in  Ireland.     Here,  we  '11  try  the  City : 


I 


I 


STRAFFORD  151 

If  they  refuse  a  loan  —  debase  the  coin 
And  seize  the  bullion  !  we  've  no  other  choice. 
Herbert  .   .   . 

And  this  while  I  am  here  !  with  you  ! 
And  there  are  hosts  such,  hosts  like  Vane !      I  go, 
And,  I  once  gone,  they  '11  close  around  you,  sir, 
When  the  least  pique,  pettiest  mistrust,  is  sure 
To  ruin  me  —  and  you  along  with  me  ! 
Do  you  see  that  ?     And  you  along  with  me  ! 
—  Sir,  you  '11  not  ever  listen  to  these  men. 
And  I  away,  lighting  your  battle  ?     Sir, 
If  they  —  if  She  —  charge  me,  no  matter  how  — 
Say  you,  "  At  any  time  when  he  returns 
His  head  is  mine  !  "     Don't  stop  me  there  !     You  know 
My  head  is  yours,  but  never  stop  me  there ! 

Cha.  Too  shameful,  Strafford  !     You  advised  the  war, 
And  .  .  . 

Straf.  I !   1 1  that  was  never  spoken  with 
Till  it  was  entered  on  I     That  loathe  the  war ! 
That  say  it  is  the  maddest,  wickedest  .  .  . 
Do  you  know,  sir,  I  think  within  my  heart, 
That  you  would  say  I  did  advise  the  war  ; 
And  if,  through  your  own  weakness,  or,  what 's  worse, 
These  Scots,  with  God  to  help  them,  drive  me  back, 
You  will  not  stej)  between  the  raging  People 
And  me,  to  say  .  .  . 

I  knew  it !  from  the  first 
I  knew  it  I      Never  was  so  cold  a  heart ! 
Remember  that  I  said  it  —  that  I  never 
Believed  you  for  a  moment ! 

—  And,  you  loved  me  ? 
You  thought  your  perfidy  profoundly  hid 
Because  I  could  not  share  the  whisperings 
With  Vane,  with  Savile  ?     What,  the  face  was  masked  ? 
I  had  the  heart  to  see,  sir  !     Face  of  flesh, 
But  heart  of  stone  —  of  smooth  cold  frightful  stone  ! 
Ay,  call  them  1     Shall  I  call  for  you  ?     The  Scots 
Goaded  to  madness  ?     Or  the  English  —  Pym  — 
Shall  I  call  Pym,  your  subject  ?      Oh,  you  think 
I  '11  leave  them  in  the  dark  about  it  all  ? 
They  shall  not  know  you  ?     Hampden,  Pym  shall  not  ? 

(Pym,  Hampden,  Vane,  etc.,  enter.) 

\_Dro]}ping  on  his  k/iee.~\     Thus   favored  \vith  your  gracious 

countenance 
What  shall  a  rebel  Lea<me  avail  a;jainst 


152  STRAFFORD 

Your  servant,  utterly  and  ever  yours  ? 

So,  gentlemen,  the  King  's  not  even  left 

The  privilege  of  bidding  me  farewell 

"Who  haste  to  save  the  People  —  that  you  style 

Your  Peojile  —  from  the  mercies  of  the  Scots 

And  France  their  friend  ? 

\^To  Charles.]  Pym's  grave  gray  eyes  are  fixed 

Upon  you,  sir  I 

Your  pleasure,  gentlemen. 

Hamp.  The  King  dissolved  us  —  't  is  the  King  we  seek 
And  not  Lord  Stratford. 

Straf.  —  Strafford,  guilty  too 

Of  counselling  the  measure.     [To  Charles.]     (Hush  .  .  .you 

know  — 
You  have  forgotten  —  sir,  I  counselled  it) 
A  heinous  matter,  truly  !     But  the  King 
Will  yet  see  cause  to  thank  me  for  a  course 
Which  now,  f)erchance  .  .   .   (Sir,  tell  them  so  I)  —  he  blames. 
Well,  choose  some  fitter  time  to  make  your  charge  : 
I  shall  be  with  the  Scots,  you  understand  ? 
Then  yelp  at  me  ! 

Meanwhile,  your  Majesty 
Binds  me,  by  this  fresh  token  of  your  trust  .  .   . 

\_Under  the  pretence  of  an  earnest  fareioell,  Strafford  conducts 
Charles  to  the  door,  in  such  a  manner  as  to  hide  his  agitation 
from  the  rest :  as  the  King  disappears,  they  turn  as  by  one  impulse 
to  Pym,  who  has  not  changed  his  original  posture  of  surprise. 

Havip.  Leave  we  this  arrogant  strong  wicked  man  ! 
Va7ie  and  others.    Hence,  Pym !     Come  out  of  this  unworthy 
place 
To  our  old  room  again  !     He  's  gone. 

[Strafford,  yus^  about  to  follow  the  King,  looks  back. 
Fym.  Not  gone  ! 

[To  Strafford.]     Keep  tryst!  the  old  appointment's  made 

anew  : 
Forget  not  we  shall  meet  again  ! 

Straf.  So  be  it ! 

And  if  an  army  follows  me  ? 

Vane.  His  friends 

Will  entertain  your  army  ! 

Pym.  I  '11  not  say 

You  have  misreckoned,  Strafford  :  time  shows. 

Perish 
Body  and  spirit !     Fool  to  feign  a  doubt, 
Pretend  the  scrupulous  and  nice  reserve 


I 


STRAFFORD  153 

Of  one  whose  prowess  shall  achieve  the  feat ! 

What  share  have  I  in  it  ?     Do  I  affect 

To  see  no  dismal  sign  above  your  head 

When  God  suspends  his  ruinous  thunder  there  ? 

Strafford  is  doomed.     Touch  him  no  one  of  you ! 

[Pym,  Hampden,  etc.,  go  out. 
Straf-  Pym,  we  shall  meet  again  ! 

(Lady  Carlisle  enters.) 

You  here,  child  ? 

Lady  Car.  Hush  — 

I  know  it  all :  hush,  Strafford  I 

Straf.  All !  you  know  ? 

Well.      I  shall  make  a  sorry  soldier,  Lucy ! 
All  knights  begin  their  enterprise,  we  read, 
Under  the  best  of  auspices  ;   't  is  morn. 
The  Lady  girds  his  sword  upon  the  Youth 
(He  's  always  very  young)  — the  trumpets  sound. 
Cups  pledge  him,  and,  why,  the  King  blesses  him  — 
You  need  not  turn  a  page  of  the  romance 
To  learn  the  Dreadful  Giant's  fate.     Indeed, 
We  've  the  fair  Lady  here  ;  but  she  apart,  — 
A  poor  man,  rarely  having  handled  lance. 
And  rather  old,  weary,  and  far  from  sure 
His  Squires  are  not  the  Giant's  friends.     All 's  one : 
Let  us  go  forth  I 

Lady  Car.  Go  forth  ? 

Straf.  What  matters  it  ? 

We  shall  die  gloriously  —  as  the  book  says. 

Lady  Car.  To  Scotland  ?  not  to  Scotland  ? 

Straf.  Am  I  sick 

Like  your  good  brother,  brave  Northumberland  ? 
Beside,  these  walls  seem  falling  on  me. 

Lady  Car,  Strafford, 

The  wind  that  saps  these  walls  can  undermine 
Your  camj)  in  Scotland,  too.     Whence  creeps  the  wind  ? 
Have  you  no  eyes  except  for  Pym  ?     Look  here  ! 
A  breed  of  silken  creatures  lurk  and  thrive 
In  your  contempt.     You  '11  vanquish  Pym  ?     Old  Vane 
Can  vanquish  you.      And  Vane  you  think  to  fly  ? 
Rush  on  the  Scots  !      Do  nobly  !     Vane's  slight  sneer 
Shall  test  success,  adjust  the  praise,  suggest 
The  faint  result :  Vane's  sneer  shall  reach  you  there. 
—  You  do  not  listen  ! 

Straf  Oh,  —  I  give  that  up  ! 

There  's  fate  in  it :   I  give  all  here  quite  up. 


154  STRAFFORD 

Care  not  what  old  Vane  does  or  Holland  does 
Against  nie  !     'T  is  so  idle  to  withstand  I 
In  no  case  tell  me  what  they  do  I 

Lady  Car.  But,  Strafford  .  .  . 

StraJ.  I  want  a  little  strife,  beside  ;  real  strife ; 
This  })etty,  palace-warfare  does  me  harm  : 
I  shall  feel  better,  fairly  out  of  it. 

Lady  Car.   Why  do  you  smile  ? 

Straf.  I  got  to  fear  them,  child ! 

I  could  have  torn  his  throat  at  first,  old  Vane's, 
As  he  leered  at  me  on  his  stealthy  way 
To  the  Queen's  closet.     Lord,  one  loses  heart ! 
I  often  found  it  in  my  heart  to  say, 
**  Do  not  traduce  me  to  her  !  " 

Lady  Car.  But  the  King  .  .  . 

Straf.  The  King  stood  there,  'tis  not  so  long  ago, 
—  There  ;  and  the  whisper,  Lucy,  "  Be  my  friend 
Of  friends  !  "  —  My  King  !     I  would  have  .   .   . 

Lady  Car.  .  .  .  Died  for  him  ? 

Straf.  Sworn  him  true,  Lucy :  I  can  die  for  him. 

Lady  Car.  But  go  not,  Strafford  !      But  you  must  renounce 
This  project  on  the  Scots !     Die,  wherefore  die  ? 
Charles  never  loved  you. 

Straf  And  he  never  will. 

He  's  not  of  those  who  care  the  more  for  men 
That  they  're  unfortunate. 

Lady  Car.  Then  wherefore  die 

For  such  a  master  ? 

Straf  You  that  told  me  first 

How  oood  he  was  —  when  I  must  leave  true  friends 
To  find  a  truer  friend  !  —  that  drew  me  here 
From  Ireland,  —  "I  had  but  to  show  myself. 
And  Charles  would  spurn  Vane,  Savile,  and  the  rest "  — 
You,  child,  to  ask  me  this  ? 

Lady  Car.  (If  he  have  set 

His  heart  abidingly  on  Charles  !) 

Tlien,  friend, 
I  shall  not  see  you  any  more. 

Straf  Yes,  Lucy. 

There  's  one  man  here  I  have  to  meet. 

Lady  Car.  (The  King  ! 

What  way  to  sav^  him  from  the  King  ? 

My  soul  -r- 
That  lent  from  its  own  store  the  charmed  disguise 
That  clotlies  the  King  —  he  sliall  behold  my  soul  I) 
Strafford,  —  I  shall  speak  best  if  you  11  not  gaze 


STRAFFORD  155 

Upon  me  :  I  hatl  never  thought,  indeed, 

To  speak,  but  you  would  perish  too,  so  sure  ! 

Could  you  but  know  what  't  is  to  bear,  my  friend, 

One  image  stamped  within  you,  turning  blank 

The  else  imperial  brilliance  of  your  mind,  — 

A  weakness,  but  most  precious,  —  like  a  flaw 

I'  the  iliamond,  which  should  shai)e  forth  some  sweet  face 

Yet  to  create,  and  meanwhile  treasured  there 

Lest  nature  lose  her  gracious  thought  forever ! 

Straf.  "When  could  it  be  ?  no !     Yet  .  .   .  was  it  the  day 
We  waited  in  the  anteroom,  till  Holland 
Should  leave  the  presence-chamber  ? 

Lady  Car.  AVhat  ? 

Straf.  —  That  I 

Described  to  you  my  love  for  Charles  ? 

Lady  Car.  (Ah,  no  — 

One  must  not  lure  him  from  a  love  like  that ! 
Oh,  let  him  love  the  King  and  die !      'T  is  past. 
I  shall  not  serve  him  worse  for  that  one  brief 
And  2)assionate  hope,  silent  forever  now!) 
And  you  are  really  bound  for  Scotland  then  ? 
I  wish  you  well :  you  must  be  very  sure 
Of  the  King's  faith,  for  Pym  and  all  his  crew 
Will  not  be  idle  —  setting  Vane  aside  ! 

Straf.  If  Pym  is  busy,  —  you  may  write  of  Pym. 

Lady  Car.  What  need,  since  there  's  your  King  to  take  your 
part  ? 
He  may  endure  Vane's  counsel ;  but  for  Pym  — 
Think  you  he  '11  suffer  Pym  to  .  .  . 

Straf  Child,  your  hair 

Is  glossier  than  the  Queen's ! 

Lady  Car.  Is  that  to  ask 

A  curl  of  me  ? 

Straf  Scotland  —  the  weary  way  ! 

Lady  Car.  Stay,  let  me  fasten  it. 

—  A  rival's,  Strafford  ? 

Straf   [sJioii'ing  the  Geor(je.~\  He  hung  it  there  :  twine  yours 
around  it,  child  ! 

Lady  Car.  No —  no  —  another  time  —  I  trifle  so  ! 
And  there  's  a  masque  on  foot.     Farewell.     The  Court 
Is  dull ;  do  something  to  enliven  us 
In  Scotland  :   we  expect  it  at  your  hands. 

Straf.  I  shall  not  fail  in  Scotland. 

Lady  Car.  Prosper  —  if 

You  '11  think  of  me  sometimes  ! 

Straf.  How  think  of  him 


156  STRAFFORD 

And  not  of  you  ?  of  you,  the  lingering  streak 
(A  golden  one)  in  my  good  fortune's  eve. 

Lady  Car.  Strafford  .  .  .  Well,  when  the  eve  has   its  last 
streak 
The  night  has  its  first  star.  {_She  goes  out. 

Straf.  That  voice  of  hers  — 

You  'd  think  she  had  a  heart  sometimes !     His  voice 
Is  soft  too. 

Only  God  can  save  him  now. 
Be  Thou  about  his  bed,  about  his  path ! 
His  jDath !      Where  's  England's  path  ?     Diverging  wide, 
And  not  to  join  again  the  track  my  foot 
Must  follow  —  whither  ?     All  that  forlorn  way 
Among  the  tombs  I     Far  —  far  —  till  .  .  .   What,  they  do 
Then  join  again,  these  paths  ?     For,  huge  in  the  dusk. 
There  's  —  Pyni  to  face  I 

Why  then,  I  have  a  foe 
To  close  with,  and  a  fight  to  fight  at  last 
Worthy  my  soul  I     What,  do  they  beard  the  King, 
And  shall  the  King  want  Strafford  at  his  need  ? 
Am  I  not  here  ? 

Not  in  the  market-place, 
Pressed  on  by  the  rough  artisans,  so  proud 
To  catch  a  glance  from  WentAvorth !     They  lie  down 
Hungry  yet  smile,  "  Why,  it  must  end  some  day  : 
Is  he  not  watching  for  our  sake  ?  "     Not  there  ! 
But  in  Whitehall,  the  whited  sepulchre, 
The  .  .  . 

Curse  nothing  to-night !     Only  one  name 
They  '11  curse  in  all  those  streets  to-night.     Whose  fault  ? 
Did  I  make  kings  ?  set  up,  the  first,  a  man 
To  represent  the  multitude,  receive 
All  love  in  right  of  them  —  supplant  them  so. 
Until  you  love  the  man  and  not  the  king  — 
The  man  with  the  mild  voice  and  mournful  eyes 
Which  send  me  forth. 

—  To  breast  the  bloody  sea 
That  sweeps  before  me  :  with  one  star  for  guide. 
Night  has  its  first,  supreme,  forsaken  star. 


STRAFFORD  157 

ACT   III. 

Scene  I.      Opposite  Westminster  Hall. 

Sir  Henry  Yane,  Lord  Savile,  Lord  Holland  and  others  of  the 

Court. 

Sir  H.  Vane.  The  Commons  thrust  you  out  ? 

Savile.  And  what  kept  you 

From  sharing  their  civility  ? 

Sir  H.  Vane.  Kept  me  ? 

Fresh  news  from  Scotland,  sir !  worse  than  the  last, 
If  that  may  be.     All 's  up  with  Strafford  there  : 
Nothing  to  bar  the  mad  Scots  marching  hither 
Next  Lord's-day  morning.     That  detained  me,  sir ! 
Well  now,  before  they  thrust  you  out,  —  go  on,  — 
Their  Speaker  —  did  the  fellow  Lenthal  say 
All  we  set  down  for  him  ? 

Hoi.  Not  a  word  missed. 

Ere  he  began,  we  entered,  Savile,  I 
And  Bristol  and  some  more,  with  hope  to  breed 
A  wholesome  awe  in  the  new  Parliament. 
But  such  a  gang  of  graceless  ruffians,  Vane, 
As  glared  at  us  ! 

Vane.  So  many  ? 

Savile.  Not  a  bench 

Without  its  complement  of  burly  knaves ; 
Your  hopeful  son  among  them  :  Hampden  leant 
Upon  his  shoulder  —  think  of  that ! 

Vane.  I  'd  think 

On  Lenthal's  speech,  if  I  could  get  at  it. 
Urged  he,  I  ask,  how  grateful  they  should  prove 
For  this  unlooked-for  summons  from  the  King  ? 

Hoi.  Just  as  we  drilled  him. 

Vane.  That  the  Scots  will  march 

On  London  ? 

Hoi.  All,  and  made  so  much  of  it, 

A  dozen  subsidies  at  least  seemed  sure 
To  follow,  when  .   .  . 

Vane.  Well  ? 

Hoi.  'T  is  a  strange  thing  now  ! 

I  've  a  vague  memory  of  a  sort  of  sound, 
A  voice,  a  kind  of  vast  unnatural  voice  — 
Pym,  sir,  was  speaking  !     Savile,  help  me  out : 
What  was  it  all  ? 

Sav.  Something  about  "  a  matter  "  — 

No,  —  "  work  for  England." 


158  STRAFFORD 

Hoi.  "  England's  great  revenge  " 

He  talked  of. 

Sav,  How  should  I  get  used  to  Pym 

More  than  yourselves  ? 

Hoi.  However  that  be, 

'T  was  something  with  which  we  had  nought  to  do, 
For  we  were  "  strangers,"  and  'twas  "  England's  work  "  — 
(All  this  while  looking  us  straight  in  the  face) 
In  other  words,  our  presence  might  be  spared. 
So,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  before 
I  settled  to  my  mind  what  ugly  brute 
Was  likest  Pym  just  then,  they  yelled  us  out, 
Locked  the  doors  after  us  ;  and  here  are  we. 

Vane.  Eliot's  old  method  .  .  . 

Sav.  Prithee,  Vane,  a  truce 

To  Eliot  and  his  times,  and  the  great  Duke, 
And  how  to  manage  Parliaments  !     'T  was  you 
Advised  the  Queen  to  summon  this  :  why,  Strafford 
(To  do  him  justice)  would  not  hear  of  it. 

Vane.  Say  rather,  you  have  done  the  best  of  turns 
To  Strafford  :  he  's  at  York,  we  all  know  why. 
I  would  you  had  not  set  the  Scots  on  Strafford 
Till  Strafford  put  down  Pym  for  us,  my  lord  ! 

Sav.  Was  it  I  altered  Strafford's  plans  ?  did  I  .   .  . 

(^4  Messenger  enters.^ 

Mes.  The  Queen,  my  lords  —  she  sends  me :  follow  me 
At  once;   'tis  very  urgent  !  she  requires 
Your  counsel :  something  perilous  and  strange 
Occasions  her  command. 

Sav.  We  follow,  friend  ! 

Now,  Vane  ;  —  your  Parliament  Avill  plague  us  all ! 

Vane.  No  Strafford  here  beside ! 

Sav.  If  you  dare  hint 

I  had  a  hand  in  his  betrayal,  sir  .  .   . 

Hoi.  Nay,  find  a  fitter  time  for  quarrels  —  Pym 
Will  overmatch  the  best  of  you  ;   and,  think, 
The  Queen ! 

Vane.  Come  on,  then  :   understand,  I  loathe 

Strafford  as  much  as  any  —  but  his  use  ! 
To  keep  off  Pym,  to  screen  a  friend  or  two, 
I  would  we  had  reserved  him  yet  awhile. 


STRAFFORD  159 

Scene  II.     Whitehall. 
The  Queen  and  Lady  Carlisle. 

Queen.  It  cannot  be. 

Lady  Car.  It  is  so. 

Queen.  Why,  the  House 

Have  hardly  met. 

Lady  Car.  They  met  for  that. 

Queen.  No,  no ! 

Meet  to  impeach  Lord  Strafford  ?     'T  is  a  jest. 

Lady  Car.  A  bitter  one. 

Queen.  Consider  !     'T  is  the  House 

We  summoned  so  reluctantly,  which  notliing 
But  the  disastrous  issue  of  the  war 
Persuaded  us  to  summon.     They  '11  wreak  all 
Their  spite  on  us,  no  doubt ;  but  the  old  way 
Is  to  begin  by  talk  of  grievances  : 
They  have  their  grievances  to  busy  them. 

Lady  Car.  Pym  has  begun  his  speech. 

Queen.  Where  's  Vane  ?  —  That  is, 

Pym  will  unpeach  Lord  Strafford  if  he  leaves 
His  Presidency  ;  he  's  at  York,  we  know, 
Since  the  Scots  beat  him  :  why  should  he  leave  York  ? 

Lady  Car.  Because  the  King  sent  for  him. 

Queen.  Ah  —  but  if 

The  King  did  send  for  him,  he  let  him  know 
We  had  been  forced  to  call  a  Parliament  — 
A  step  which  Strafford,  now  I  come  to  think, 
Was  vehement  against. 

Lady  Car.  The  policy 

Escaped  him,  of  first  striking  Parliaments 
To  earth,  then  setting  them  upon  their  feet 
And  giving  them  a  sword  :  but  this  is  idle. 
Did  the  King  send  for  Strafford  ?     He  will  come. 

Queen.  And  what  am  I  to  do  ? 

Lady  Car.  What  do  ?     Fail,  madam  ! 

Be  ruined  for  his  sake  !  what  matters  how, 
So  it  but  stand  on  record  that  you  made 
An  effort,  only  one  ? 

Queen.  The  King  away 

At  Theobald's  ! 

Lady  Car.       Send  for  him  at  once  :  he  must 
Dissolve  the  House. 

Queen.  Wait  till  Vane  finds  the  truth 

Of  the  report :   then  .  .   . 


160  STRAFFORD 

Lady  Car.  — It  will  matter  little 

What  the  King  does.     Strafford  that  lends  his  arm 
And  breaks  his  heart  for  you  ! 

(Sir  H.  Vane  enters.) 

Vane.  The  Commons,  madam, 

Are  sitting  with  closed  doors.     A  huge  debate, 
No  lack  of  noise  ;  but  nothing,  I  should  guess, 
Concerning  Strafford  :   Pym  has  certainly 
Not  spoken  yet. 

Queen.  \_To  Lady  Carlisle.]  You  hear  ? 

Lady  Car.  I  do  not  hear 

That  the  King  's  sent  for  ! 

Sir  H.  Vane.  Savile  will  be  able 

To  tell  you  more. 

(Holland  enters.) 

Queen.  The  last  news,  Holland  ? 

Hoi.  Pym 

Is  raging  like  a  fire.     Tlie  whole  House  means 
To  follow  him  together  to  Whitehall 
And  force  the  King  to  give  up  Strafford. 

Queen.  Strafford  ? 

Hoi.  If  they  content  themselves  with  Strafford !   Laud 
Is  talked  of,  Cottington  and  Windebank  too. 
Pym  has  not  left  out  one  of  them  —  I  would 
You  heard  Pym  raging ! 

Queen.  Vane,  go  find  the  King  ! 

Tell  the  King,  Vane,  the  People  follow  Pym 
To  brave  us  at  Whitehall ! 

(Savile  enters.)  ; 

Savile.  Not  to  Whitehall  —  1 

'T  is  to  the  Lords  they  go  :  they  seek  redress  \ 

On  Strafford  from  his  peers  —  the  legal  way,  -i 

They  call  it.  | 

Queen.         (Wait,  Vane !)  \ 

Sav.  But  the  adage  gives  | 

Lonsr  life  to  threatened  men.     Strafford  can  save 
Himself  so  readily  :  at  York,  remember, 
In  his  own  county :  what  has  he  to  fear  ? 
The  Commons  only  mean  to  frighten  him 
From  leaving  York.     Surely,  he  will  not  come. 

Queen.  Lucy,  he  will  not  come  I 

Lady  Car.  Once  more,  the  King 

Has  sent  for  Strafford.     He  will  come. 


1 


STRAFFORD  161 

Vane.  Oh,  doubtless ! 

And  bring  destruction  with  him  :  that 's  his  way. 
What  but  his  coining  spoilt  all  Conway's  plan  ? 
The  King'  must  take  his  counsel,  choose  his  friends, 
Be  wliolly  ruled  by  him  I      What's  the  result? 
The  North  that  was  to  rise,  Ireland  to  help,  — 
What  came  of  it  ?     In  my  poor  mind,  a  fright 
Is  no  prodigious  punishment. 

Lady  Car.  A  fright  ? 

Pym  will  fail  worse  than  Strafford  if  he  thinks^ 
To  frighten  him.      \_To  the  Queex.]     You  will   not  save  him 
then  ? 

Sav.  When  something  like  a  charge  is  made,  the  King 
Will  best  know  how  to  save  him  :   and  't  is  clear, 
While  Strafford  suffers  nothing  by  the  matter. 
The  King  may  reap  advantage :  this  in  question, 
No  dinning  you  with  ship-money  complaints  I 

Queen.  {^To  Lady  Carlisle.]  If  we  dissolve  them,  who  will 
pay  the  army, 
Protect  us  from  the  insolent  Scots  ? 

Lady  Car.  In  truth, 

I  know  not,  madam.     Strafford's  fate  concerns 
Me  little  :  you  desired  to  learn  what  course 
Would  save  him  :   I  obey  you. 

Vane.  Notice,  too. 

There  can't  be  fairer  ground  for  taking  full 
Revenge  —  (Strafford  's  revengeful)  —  than  he'll  have 
Against  his  old  friend  Pym. 

Queen.  ^^hy?  he  shall  claim 

Vengeance  on  Pym ! 

Vane.  And  Strafford,  who  is  he 

To  'scape  unscathed  amid  the  accidents 
That  harass  all  beside  ?     I,  for  my  part, 
Should  look  for  something  of  discomfiture 
Had  the  King  trusted  me  so  thoroughly 
And  been  so  paid  for  it. 

Hoi.  He  '11  keep  at  York  : 

All  will  blow  over :  he  W.  return  no  worse. 
Humbled  a  little,  thankful  for  a  place 
Under  as  good  a  man.     Oh,  we  '11  dispense 
With  seeing  Strafford  for  a  month  or  two  ! 

(Strafford  enters.) 

Queen.  You  here ! 

Straf.  The  King  sends  for  me,  madam. 

Queen.  Sir, 

The  King  .  .  . 


162  STRAFFORD 

Straf.  An  urgent  matter  that  imports  the  King  ! 

[To  Lady  Carlisle.]   Why,  Lucy,  what's  in  agitation  now, 
That  all  this  muttering  and  shrugging,  see, 
Begins  at  me  ?     They  do  not  speak  I 

Lad(/  Car.  'T  is  welcome  ! 

For  we  are  proud  of  you  —  happy  and  proud 
To  have  you  with  us,  Strafford  I      You  were  stanch 
At  Durham  :  you  did  well  there  !     Had  you  not 
Been  stayed,  you  might  have  ....  we  said,  even  now, 
Our  hope  's  in  you  I 

Sir  H.  Vane.  \_To  Lady  Caklisle.]     The  Queen  would  speak 
with  you. 

Straf.  Will  one  of  you,  his  servants  here,  vouchsafe 
To  signify  my  presence  to  the  King  ? 

Sav.  An  urgent  matter  ? 

Straf.  None  that  touches  you, 

Lord  Savile  !     Say,  it  were  some  treacherous 
Sly  pitiful  intriguing  with  the  Scots  — 
You  would  go  free,  at  least !      (They  half  divine 
My  purpose  !)     Madam,  shall  I  see  the  King  ? 
The  service  I  would  render,  much  concerns 
His  welfare. 

Queen.         But  his  Majesty,  my  lord, 
May  not  be  here,  may  .  .  . 

Straf.  Its  importance,  then, 

Must  plead  excuse  for  this  withdrawal,  madam, 
And  for  the  grief  it  gives  Lord  Savile  here. 

Queen.    [_Who  has  been  conversinrj  with  Vaxe  andHoJj- 
LAXD.]     The  King  will  see  you,  sir  ! 
[To  Lady  Carlisle.]  Mark  me  :  Pym's  worst 

Is  done  by  now  :  he  has  impeached  the  Eiarl, 
Or  found  the  Earl  too  strong  for  him,  by  now. 
Let  us  not  seem  instructed  !     AYe  should  work 
No  good  to  Strafford,  but  deform  ourselves 
With  shame  in  the  world's  eye.     \_To  Strafford.]     His  Ma- 
jesty 
Has  much  to  say  with  you. 

Straf.  Time  fleeting,  too  ! 

\_To  Lady  Carlisle.]     No  means  of  getting  them  away?    An  1 

Siie  — 
What  does  she  whisper  ?     Does  she  know  my  purpose  ? 
What  does  she  think  of  it  ?     Get  them  away  ! 

Queen.   [To  Lady  Carlisle.]     He  comes  to  baffle  Pym  — 
he  thinks  the  danger 
Far  off  :  tell  him  no  word  of  it !   a  time 
For  help  will  come  ;  we  '11  not  be  wanting  then. 


STRAFFORD  163 

Keep  him  in  play,  Lucy  —  you,  self-possessed 

And   calm  I     \_To  Strafford.]     To  spare  your  lordship  some 

delay 
I  will  myself  acquaint  the  King.     [  To  Lady  Carlisle.]     Be- 
ware I 

[77je  Queen,  Vaxe,  Holland,  and  Savile  go  out. 

Straf.  She  knows  it  ? 

Lady  Car.  Tell  me,  Strafford  ! 

Straf.  Afterward ! 

This  moment 's  the  great  moment  of  all  time. 
She  knows  my  purpose  ? 

Lady  Car.  Thoroughly  :  just  now 

She  bade  me  hide  it  from  you. 

Straf.  Quick,  dear  child. 

The  whole  o'  the  scheme  ? 

Lady  Car.  (Ah,  he  would  learn  if  they 

Connive  at  Pym's  procedure  I      Could  they  but 
Have  once  apprised  the  King  !     But  there  's  no  time 
For  falsehood  now.)      Strafford,  the  whole  is  known. 

Straf.  Known  and  approved  ? 

Lady  Car.  Hardly  discountenanced. 

Straf.  And  the  King  —  say,  the  King  consents  as  well  ? 

Lady  Car.  The  King 's  not  yet  informed,  but  will  not  dare 
To  interpose. 

Straf.  What  need  to  wait  him,  then  ? 

He  '11  sanction  it !     I  stayed,  child,  tell  him,  long  ! 
It  vexed  me  to  the  soul  —  this  waiting  here. 
You  know  him,  there  's  no  counting  on  the  King. 
Tell  him  I  waited  long  ! 

Lady  Car.  (What  can  he  mean  ? 

Rejoice  at  the  King's  hollowness  ?) 

Straf  I  knew 

They  would  be  glad  of  it,  —  all  over  once, 
I  knew  they  would  be  glad  :  but  he  'd  contrive, 
The  Queen  and  he,  to  mar,  by  helping  it. 
An  anijel's  makings. 

Lady  Car.   (Is  he  mad  ?)      Dear  Strafford, 
You  were  not  wont  to  look  so  ha])py. 

Straf  Sweet, 

I  tried  obedience  thoroughly.     I  took 
The  King's  wild  plan  :  of  course,  ere  I  could  reach 
My  army,  Conway  ruined  it.     I  drew 
The  wrecks  together,  raised  all  heaven  and  earth, 
And  would  have  fought  the  Scots :  the  King  at  once 
Made  truce  with  them.     Tlien,  Lucy,  tlien,  dear  child, 
God  put  it  in  my  mind  to  love,  serve,  die 


164  STRAFFORD 

For  Charles,  but  never  to  obey  him  more  ! 
While  he  endured  their  insolence  at  Ripon 
I  fell  on  them  at  Durham.     But  you  '11  tell 
The  King  I  waited  ?     All  the  anteroom 
Is  filled  with  my  adherents. 

Lady  Car.  Strafford  —  Strafford, 

What  daring  act  is  this  you  hint  ? 

Straf.  No,  no  ! 

'T  is  liere,  not  daring  if  you  knew  !   all  here  ! 

[^Drawing  papers  from  his  breast. 
Full  proof  ;  see,  ample  -pvooi  —  does  the  Queen  know 
I  have  such  damning  proof  ?     Bedford  and  Essex, 
Brooke,  Warwick,  Savile  (did  you  notice  Savile  ? 
The  simper  that  I  spoilt  ?)   Saye,  Mandeville  — 
Sold  to  the  Scots,  body  and  soul,  by  Pym ! 

Lady  Car.  Great  heaven  I 

Straf.  From  Savile  and  his  lords,  to  Pym 

And  his  losels,  crushed !  —  Pym  shall  not  ward  the  blow 
Nor  Savile  creeji  aside  from  it !      The  Crew 
And  the  Cabal  —  I  crush  them  ! 

Lady  Car.  And  you  go  — 

Strafford,  —  and  now  you  go  ?  — 

Straf.  —  About  no  work    . 

In  the  background,  I  promise  you  !     I  go 
Straight  to  the  House  of  Lords  to  claim  these  knaves. 
Main  waring ! 

Lady  Car.  Stay  —  stay,  Strafford  ! 

Straf.  She  '11  return. 

The  Queen  —  some  little  project  of  her  own ! 
No  time  to  lose :  the  King  takes  fright  perhajos. 

Lady  Car.   Pym  's  strong,  remember  ! 

Straf.  Very  strong,  as  fits 

The  Faction's  head  —  with  no  offence  to  Hampden, 
Vane,  Rudyard,  and  my  loving  Hollis  :   one 
And  all  they  lodge  within  the  Tower  to-night 
In  JList  equality.      Bryan  !      ]\Iain waring  I 

[Many  of  his  Adherents  enter. 
The  Peers  debate  just  now  (a  lucky  chance) 
On  the  Scots'  war  ;  my  visit  's  opportune. 
When  all  is  over,  Bryan,  you  proceed 
To  Ireland  :  these  despatches,  mark  me,  Bryan, 
Are  for  the  Dei)uty,  and  these  for  Ormond  : 
We  want  the  army  here  —  my  army,  raised 
At  such  a  cost,  that  should  have  done  such  good, 
And  was  inactive  all  the  time  !   no  matter, 
We  '11  find  a  use  for  it.     Willis  .  .  .  or,  no  —  you  ! 


STRAFFORD  165 

You,  friend,  make  haste  to  York  :  bear  this,  at  once  .  .  . 

Or,  —  better  stay  for  form's  sake,  see  yourself 

The  news  you  carry.     You  remain  with  me 

To  execute  the  Parliament's  connnand, 

Mainvvaring  I     Help  to  seize  these  lesser  knaves, 

Take  care  there  's  no  escaping  at  backdoors : 

I  '11  not  have  one  escape,  mind  me  —  not  one  ! 

I  seem  revengeful,  Lucy  ?     Did  you  know 

What  these  men  dare  ! 

Lady  Car.  It  is  so  much  they  dare  ! 

Straf.  I  proved  that  long  ago  ;  my  turn  is  now. 
Keep  sharp  watch.  Goring,  on  the  citizens  ! 
Observe  who  harbors  any  of  the  brood 
That  scramble  off  :  be  sure  they  smart  for  it ! 
Our  coffers  are  but  lean. 

And  you,  child,  too, 
Shall  have  your  task  ;  deliver  this  to  Laud. 
Laud  will  not  be  the  slowest  in  my  praise  : 
"  Thorough,"  he  'U  cry !  —  Foolish,  to  be  so  glad  ! 
This  life  is  gay  and  glowing,  after  all : 
'T  is  worth  while,  Lucy,  having  foes  like  mine 
Just  for  the  bliss  of  crushing  them.     To-day 
Is  worth  the  living  for. 

Lady  Car.  That  reddening  brow  ! 

You  seem  .  .  . 

Straf.  Well  —  do  I  not  ?     I  would  be  well  — 

I  could  not  but  be  well  on  such  a  day  ! 
And,  this  day  ended,  't  is  of  slight  import 
How  long  the  ravaged  frame  subjects  the  soul 
In  Strafford. 

Lady  Car.  Noble  Strafford  ! 

Straf.  No  farewell ! 

I  '11  see  you  anon,  to-morrow  —  the  first  thing. 
—  If  She  should  come  to  stay  me  ! 

Lady  Car.  Go  —  't  is  nothing  — 

Only  my  heart  that  swells  :  it  has  been  thus 
Ere  now  :   go,  Strafford  ! 

Straf  To-night,  then,  let  it  be. 

I  must  see  Him  :  you,  the  next  after  Him. 
I  '11  tell  you  how  Pym  looked.     Follow  me,  friends ! 
You,  gentlemen,  shall  see  a  sight  this  hour 
To  talk  of  all  your  lives.     Close  after  me  ! 
"  My  friend  of  friends  !  " 

[Strafford  a^id  the  rest  go  out. 

Lady  Car.  The  King  —  ever  the  King  ! 

No  thought  of  one  beside,  whose  little  word 


166  STRAFFORD 

Unveils  the  King  to  him  —  one  word  from  me, 
Which  yet  I  do  not  breathe  ! 

Ah,  have  I  sj^ared 
StvafEord  a  pang,  and  shall  I  seek  reward 
Beyond  that  memory  ?     Surely  too,  some  way 
He  is  the  better  for  my  love.     No,  no  — 
He  would  not  look  so  joyous  —  I  '11  believe 
His  very  eye  would  never  sparkle  thus, 
Had  I  not  prayed  for  him  this  long,  long  while. 


Scene  III.    The  Antechamber  of  the  House  of  Lords. 
Many  of  the  Presbyterian  Party.     The  Adherents  q/"  Strafford,  etc. 

A  Group  of  Preshyterians.  —  1.   I  tell  you  he  struck  Max- 
well :    Maxwell  sought 
To  stay  the  Earl :  he  struck  him  and  passed  on. 

2.  Fear  as  you  may,  keep  a  good  countenance 
Before  these  rufflers. 

o.  Strafford  here  the  first, 

With  the  great  army  at  his  back ! 

4.  No  doubt. 

I  would  Pym  had  made  haste  :  that 's  Bryan,  hush  — 
The  gallant  pointing. 

StraffoixVs  Followers.  —  1.  Mark  these  worthies,  now! 

2.  A  goodly  gathering  !      "  Where  the  carcass  is 
There  shall  the  eagles  "  —     What 's  the  rest? 

3.  For  eagles 
Say  crows. 

A  Presbyterian.  Stand  back,  sirs  ! 

Oyie  of  Strafford's  Followers.  Are  we  in  Geneva  ? 

A    Presbyterian.     No,  nor  in    Ireland  ;    we    have    leave    to 
breathe. 

One  of   Strafford s  Folloivers.     Truly  ?     Behold  how  privi- 
leged we  be 
That  serve  "•  King  Pym  !  "    There  's  Some-one  at  Whitehall 
Who  skulks  obscure  ;  but  Pym  struts  .   .  . 

The  Presbyterian.  Nearer. 

A  Follower  of  Strafford.  Higher, 

We  look  to  see  him.     \_To  his  Companions.]     I'm  to  have  St. 

John 
In  charge  ;  was  he  among  the  knaves  just  now 
That  followed  Pym  within  theie  ? 

Another.  The  gaunt  man 

Talking  with  Rudyard.    Did  the  Earl  expect 
Pym  at  his  heels  so  fast  ?     I  like  it  not. 


STRAFFORD  167 

(Maxwell  enters.) 

Another.  Why,  man,  they  rush  into  the  net !      Here  's  Max- 
well — 
Ha,  Maxwell !     How  the  brethren  flock  around 
The  fellow  !      Do  you  feel  the  Earl's  hand  yet 
Upon  your  shoulder.  Maxwell? 

Max.  Gentlemen, 

Stand  back  !  a  great  thing  passes  here. 

A  Follower  of  Strafford.     \_To  anotJier.']     The  Earl 
Is  at  his  work  !     \_To  M.]    Say,  Maxwell,  what  great  thing  I 
Speak  out !      \_To  a  Presbyterian.]   Friend,  I  've  a  kindness  for 

you !     Friend, 
I  've  seen  you  with  St.  John  :  O  stockishness  ! 
Wear  such  a  ruff,  and  never  call  to  mind 
St.  John's  head  in  a  charger  ?     How,  the  plague, 
Not  laugh  ? 

Another.     Say,  Maxwell,  what  great  thing  ! 

Another.  Nay,  wait: 

The  jest  will  be  to  wait. 

First.  And  who  's  to  bear 

These  demure  hypocrites  ?     You  'd  swear  they  came  .  .  . 
Came  .  .   .  just  as  we  come  ! 

\_A  Puritan  enters  hastily  and  without  observitig  Strafford's 
Followers. 

Tlie  Puritan.  How  goes  on  the  work  ? 

Has  Pym  .  .  . 

A  Follower  of  Strafford.  The  secret's  out  at  last.     Aha, 
The  carrion  's  scented  !     Welcome,  crow  the  first ! 
Gorge  merrily,  you  with  the  blinking  eye  ! 
"  King  Pym  has  fallen  !  " 

The  Puritan.  Pywi  ? 

A  Strafford.  Pym  ! 

A  Presbyterian.  Only  Pym  ? 

Many  of  Strafford's  Followers.  No,  brother,  not  Pym  only  ; 
Vane  as  well, 
Rudyard  as  well,  Hampden,  St.  John  as  well ! 

A  Presbyterian.  My  mind  misgives  :  can  it  be  true  ? 

Another.  Lost!  lost! 

A  Strafford.  Say  we  true.  Maxwell  ? 

The  Puritan.  Pride  before  destruction, 

A  haughty  spirit  goeth  before  a  fall. 

Many  of  Strafford's  Followers.     Ah  now !     The  very  thing  ! 
A  word  in  season ! 
A  golden  apple  in  a  silver  picture, 
To  greet  Pym  as  he  passes  I 


168  STRAFFORD 

l^TTie  doors  at  the  back  begin  to  open,  noise  and  light  issuing. 

Max.  Stand  back,  all  ! 

Mann  of  the  Preshyteinans.  I  hold  with  Pym  !     And  1 1 

Strajford' s  Followers.  Now  for  the  text ! 

He  comes  I     Quick  ! 

The  Furitan.  How  hath  the  oppressor  ceased ! 

The  Lord  hath  broken  the  staff  of  the  wicked  ! 
The  sceptre  of  the  rulers,  he  who  smote 
The  people  in  wrath  with  a  continual  stroke, 
That  ruled  the  nations  in  his  anger  —  he 
Is  persecuted  and  none  hindereth  ! 

\_The  doors  open,  and  Strafford  issues  in  the  greatest  disorder,  and 
amid  cries  from  ivithin  of '^  Void  the  House." 

Straf.  Impeach  me  !     Pym  !     I  never  struck,  I  think, 
The  felon  on  that  calm  insulting  mouth 

When  it  proclaimed  —  Pym's  mouth  proclaimed  me  .   .  .  God ! 
Was  it  a  word,  only  a  word  that  held 
The  outrageous  blood  back  on  my  heart  —  which  beats  ! 
Which  beats  !      Some  one  word  —  "  Traitor,"  did  he  say, 
Bending  that  eye,  brimful  of  bitter  fire, 
Upon  me  ? 

Max.  In  the  Commons'  name,  their  servant 
Demands  Lord  Strafford's  sword. 

Sti'of.  What  did  you  say  ? 

Max.  The  Commons  bid  me  ask  your  lordship's  sword. 

Straf.  Let  us  go  forth :  follow  me,  gentlemen  \ 
Draw  your  swords  too :  cut  any  down  that  bar  us. 
On  the  King's  service  !      Maxwell,  clear  the  way  I 

\_The  Presbyterians  prepare  to  dispute  his  passage. 

Straf.  I  stay  :  the  King  himself  shall  see  me  here. 
Your  tablets,  fellow  ! 

[To  JMainwarixg.]  Give  that  to  the  King! 
Yes,  Maxwell,  for  the  next  half-hour,  let  be  ! 
Nay,  you  shall  take  my  sword ! 

[Maxwell  advances  to  take  it. 
Or,  no  —  not  that ! 
Their  blood,  perhaps,  may  wipe  out  all  thus  far. 
All  up  to  that  —  not  that !     Why,  friend,  you  see  ^ 

When  the  King  lays  your  head  beneath  my  foot 
it  will  not  })ay  for  that.     Go,  all  of  you  ! 

Max.  I  dare,  my  lord,  to  disobey :  none  stir  ! 

Straf.  This  gentle  Maxwell !  —  Do  not  touch  him,  Bryan  ! 
[To  the  Presbyterians.]     Whichever  cur  of  you  will  carry  this 
Esca])es  his  fellow's  fate.     None  saves  his  life  ? 
None? 

[Cries  from  within  0/ "  Strafford." 


STRAFFORD  109 

Slingsby,  I  've  loved  you  at  least :  make  haste ! 
Stab  me  !   I  have  not  time  to  tell  you  why. 
You  then,  my  Bryan  I      Mainwaring,  you  then  ! 
Is  it  because  I  spoke  so  hastily 
At  Alleiton  ?     The  King  had  vexed  me. 
[To  tlie  Presbyterians.]  You! 

—  Not  even  you  ?     If  I  live  over  this, 
The  King  is  sure  to  have  your  heads,  you  know! 
But  what  if  I  can  t  live  this  minute  through  ? 
Pym,  who  is  there  with  his  pursuing  smile  ! 

\_Louder  cries  o/" "  Strafford." 
The  King  !     I  troubled  him,  stood  in  the  way 
Of  his  negotiations,  was  the  one 
Great  obstacle  to  peace,  the  Enemy 
Of  Scotland  :  and  he  sent  for  me,  from  York, 
My  safety  guaranteed  —  having  prepared 
A  Parliament  —  I  see  !      And  at  Whitehall 
The  Queen  was  whispering  with  Vane  —  I  see 
The  trap  !  [  Tearing  off  the  George. 

I  tread  a  gewgaw  underfoot, 
And  cast  a  memory  from  me.     One  stroke,  now  ! 

\^His  own  Adherents  disarm  him.     Renewed  cries  of  "  Strafford." 
England  I      I  see  thy  arm  in  this,  and  yield. 
Pray  you  now  —  Pyni  awaits  me  —  pray  you  now  ! 

[Strafford  reaches  the  doors :  they  opeyi  wide.  Hampden  and  a 
crowd  discovered,  and,  at  the  bar,  Pym  standing  apart.  As  Straf- 
ford kneels,  the  scene  shuts. 


ACT  IV. 

Scene  I.      Whitehall. 

The  King,  the  Queen,  Hollis,  Lady  Carlisle.     (Vane,  Holland, 
Savile,  in  the  background.) 

Ladtj  Car.  Answer  them.  Hollis,  for  his  sake  !     One  word ! 

Cha.   [To  Hollis.]      You  stand,  silent  and  cold,  as  though  I 
were 
Deceiving  you  —  my  friend,  my  playfellow 
Of  other  times.     What  wonder  after  all  ? 
Just  so,  I  dreamed  my  People  loved  me. 

IIol.  Sir, 

It  is  yourself  that  you  deceive,  not  me. 
You  '11  quit  me  comforted,  your  mind  made  up 


170  STRAFFORD 

That,  since  you  've  talked  thus  much  and  grieved  thus  much, 
All  you  can  do  for  Strafford  has  been  done. 

Queen.  If  you  kill  Strafford  —  (come,  we  grant  you  leave. 
Suppose)  — 

Hoi.  I  may  withdraw,  sir  ? 

Lady  Car.  Hear  them  out ! 

'T  is  the  last  chance  for  Strafford  !     Hear  them  out ! 

Hoi.  "  If  we  kill  Strafford  "  —  on  the  eighteenth  day 
Of  Strafford's  trial  —  "  We  !  " 

Cha.  Pyii^j  my  good  HoUis  — 

Pym,  I  should  say  ! 

Hoi.  Ah,  true  —  sir,  pardon  me  I 

You  witness  our  proceedings  every  day  ; 
But  the  screened  gallery,  I  might  have  guessed, 
Admits  of  such  a  partial  glimpse  at  us, 
Pym  takes  up  all  the  room,  shuts  out  the  view. 
Still,  on  my  honor,  sir,  the  rest  of  the  place 
Is  not  unoccupied.     The  Commons  sit 
—  That 's  England  ;  Ireland  sends,  and  Scotland  too, 
Their  representatives  ;  the  Peers  that  judge 
Are  easily  distinguished  ;  one  remarks 
The  People  here  and  there :  but  the  close  curtain 
Must  hide  so  much  ! 

Queen.  Acquaint  your  insolent  crew, 

This  day  the  curtain  shall  be  dashed  aside ! 
It  served  a  purpose. 

Hoi.  Think  !     This  very  day  ? 

Ere  Strafford  rises  to  defend  himself  ? 

Cha.   I  will  defend  him,  sir  !  —  sanction  the  past 
This  day  :  it  ever  was  my  purpose.     Rage 
At  me,  not  Strafford  ! 

Lady  Car.  Nobly  !  —  will  he  not 

Do  nobly  ? 

Hoi.  Sir,  you  will  do  honestly  ; 

And,  for  that  deed,  I  too  would  be  a  king. 

Cha.  Only,  to  do  this  now  I  —  "  deaf  "  (in  your  style) 
"  To  subjects'  prayers,"  —  I  must  oppose  them  now. 
It  seems  tlieir  will  the  trial  should  proceed,  — 
So  palpably  their  will  I 

Hoi.  You  peril  much, 

But  it  were  no  bright  moment  save  for  that. 
Strafford,  your  prime  support,  the  sole  roof -tree 
That  props  this  quaking  House  of  Privilege, 
(Floods  come,  winds  beat,  and  see  —  the  treacherous  sand  !) 
Doul)tless,  if  the  mere  putting  forth  an  arm 
Coahl  save  him,  you  'd  save  Straffurd. 


STRAFFORD  171 

Cha.  And  they  mean 

Consummate  calmly  this  gi^eat  wrong  !     No  hope  ? 
This  ineffaceable  wrong  !     No  pity  then  ? 

Hoi.  No  plague  in  store  for  perfidy  ?  —  Farewell ! 
You  called  me,  sir  —     [  To  Lady  Carlisle.]    You,  lady,  bade 

me  come 
To  save  the  Earl :  I  came,  thank  God  for  it, 
To  learn  how  far  such  perfidy  can  go  ! 
You,  sir,  concert  with  me  on  saving  him 
Who  have  just  ruined  Strafford  ! 

Cha.  I  ?  —  and  how  ? 

Hoi.  Eighteen  days  long  he  throws,  one  after  one, 
Pym's  charges  back :   a  blind  moth-eaten  law  I 
—  He  '11  break  from  it  at  last :  and  whom  to  thank  ? 
The  mouse  that  gnawed  the  lion's  net  for  him 
Got  a  good  friend,  —  but  he,  the  other  mouse. 
That  looked  on  while  the  lion  freed  himself  — 
Fared  he  so  well,  does  any  fable  say  ? 

Cha.  What  can  you  mean  ? 

Hoi.  Pym  never  could  have  proved 

Strafford's  design  of  bringing  up  the  troops 
To  force  this  kingdom  to  obedience  :  Vane  — 
Your  servant,  not  our  friend,  has  proved  it. 

Cha.  Vane  ? 

Hoi.  This  day.     Did  Vane  deliver  up  or  no 
Those  notes  which,  furnished  by  his  son  to  Pym, 
Seal  Strafford's  fate  ? 

Cha.  Sir,  as  I  live,  I  know 

Nothing  that  Vane  has  done  !     What  treason  next? 
I  wash  my  hands  of  it.     Vane,  speak  the  truth  ! 
Ask  Vane  himself ! 

Hoi.  I  will  not  speak  to  Vane, 

Who  speak  to  Pym  and  Hampden  every  day. 

Queen.   Speak  to  Vane's  master  then  I     What  gain  to  him 
Were  Strafford's  death  ? 

Hoi.  Ha  ?     Strafford  cannot  turn 

As  you,  sir,  sit  there  —  bid  you  forth,  demand 
If  every  hateful  act  were  not  set  down 
In  his  commission  ?  —  whether  you  contrived 
Or  no,  that  all  the  violence  should  seem 
His  work,  the  gentle  ways  —  your  own,  —  his  part, 
To  counteract  the  King's  kind  impulses  — 
While  .   .   .   but  you  know  what  he  could  say  I      And  then 
He  might  produce,  —  mark,  sir  !  — ^  a  certain  charge 
To  set  the  King's  express  command  aside. 
If  need  were,  and  be  blameless.     He  might  add  .  .  . 


172  STRAFFORD 

Cha.  Enough ! 

Hoi.  —  Who  bade  him  break  the  Parliament, 

Find  some  pretext  for  setting  up  sword-law  ! 

Queen.  Retire  I 

Cha.  Once  more,  whatever  Vane  dared  do, 

I  know  not :  he  is  rash,  a  fool  —  1  know 
Nothing  of  Vane  I 

Hoi.  Well  —  I  believe  you.     Sir, 

Believe  me,  in  return,  that  .  .   . 
[Turning  to  Lady  Carlisle.]     Gentle  lady. 
The  few  words  I  would  say,  the  stones  might  hear 
Sooner  than  these,  —  I  rather  speak  to  you. 
You,  with  the  heart  I     The  question,  trust  me,  takes 
Another  shape,  to-day  :   not,  if  the  King 
Or  England  shall  succumb,  —  but,  who  shall  pay 
The  forfeit,  Strafford  or  his  master.     Sir, 
You  loved  me  once  :  think  on  my  warning  now!        \_Goes  out. 

Cha.  On  you  and  on  your  warning  both  I  —  Carlisle  ! 
That  paper ! 

Queen.  But  consider ! 

Cha.  Give  it  me  ! 

There,  signed  —  will  that  content  you  ?     Do  not  speak  ! 
You  have  betrayed  me.  Vane  !     See  I   any  day, 
According  to  the  tenor  of  that  paper. 
He  bids  your  brother  bring  the  army  up, 
Strafford  shall  head  it  and  take  full  revenge. 
Seek  Strafford  !     Let  him  have  the  same,  before 
He  rises  to  defend  himself  ! 

Queen.  In  truth  ? 

That  your  shrewd  Hollis  should  have  worked  a  change 
Like  this  !     You,  late  reluctant  .  .   . 

Cha.  Say,  Carlisle, 

Your  brother  Percy  brings  the  army  up. 
Falls  on  the  Parliament  —  (I  '11  think  of  you, 
My  Hollis  I )  say,  we  plotted  long  —  't  is  mine, 
The  scheme  is  mine,  remember  !     Say,  I  cursed  ^ 

Vane's  folly  in  your  hearing  !  If  the  Earl 
Does  rise  to  do  us  shame,  the  fault  shall  lie 
With  you.  Carlisle  ! 

Lady  Car.  Nay,  fear  not  me  !  but  still 

That 's  a  bright  moment,  sir,  you  throw  away. 
Tear  down  the  veil  and  save  him  ! 

Queen.  Go,  Carlisle  ! 

Ladij  Car.  (I  shall  see  Strafford  —  speak  to  him  :  my  heart 
Must  never  beat  so,  then  !      And  if  I  tell 
The  truth  ?     What 's  gained  by  falsehood  ?     There  they  stand 


STRAFFORD  173 

Whose  trade  it  is,  whose  life  it  is  I     How  vain 
To  ofild  such  rottenness  !     Stratford  shall  know, 
Thoroughly  know  them  .) 

Queen.  Trust  to  me  !     \_To  Carlisle.]  Carlisle, 

You  seem  inclined,  alone  of  all  the  Court, 
To  serve  poor  Strafford  :  this  bold  plan  of  yours 
Merits  much  praise,  and  yet  .   .   . 

Lady  Car.  Time  presses,  madam. 

Queen.  Yet  —  may  it  not  be  somethiui^  premature  ? 
Strafford  defends  himself  to-day  —  reserves 
Some  wondrous  effort,  one  may  well  suppose  ! 

Lady  Car.   Ay,  IloUis  hints  as  much. 

Cha.  Why  linger  then  ? 

Haste  with  the  scheme  —  my  scheme  :  I  shall  be  there 
To  watch  his  look.     Tell  him  I  watch  his  look  ! 

Queen.  Stay,  we  '11  precede  you  I 

Lady  Car.  At  your  pleasure. 

Cha.  ^  Say  — 

Say,  Vane  is  hardly  ever  at  AVhitehall  ! 
I  shall  be  there,  remember  I 

Lady  Car.  Doubt  me  not. 

Cha.  On  our  return,  Carlisle,  we  wait  you  here  ! 

Lady  Car.  I  '11  bring  his  answer.     Sir,  I  follow  you. 
(Prove  the  King  faithless,  and  I  take  away 
All  Strafford  cares  to  live  for :  let  it  be  — 
'T  is  the  King's  scheme  ! 

My  Strafford,  I  can  save, 
Nay,  I  have  saved  you,  yet  am  scarce  content, 
Because  my  poor  name  will  not  cross  your  mind. 
Strafford,  how  much  I  am  unworthy  you !) 


Scene  II.    A  passage  adjoining  Westminster  Hall. 
Many  groups  o/ Spectators  of  the  Trial    Officers  of  the  Court,  etc. 

1st  Spec.  More  crowd  than  ever  !    Not  know  Hampden,  man  ? 
That 's  he,  by  Pym,  Pym  that  is  speaking  now. 
No,  truly,  if  you  look  so  high  you  '11  see 
Little  enouo^h  of  either ! 

'2d  Spec.  Stay  :   Pym's  arm 

Points  like  a  prophet's  rod. 

3d  Spec.  Ay,  ay,  we  've  heard 

Some  pretty  speaking  :  yet  the  Earl  escapes. 

4:th  Spec.   I  fear  it  :  just  a  foolish  word  or  two 
About  his  children  —  and  we  see,  forsooth, 
Not  England's  foe  in  Strafford,  but  the  man 
Who,  sick,  half-blind  .  .  . 


174  STRAFFORD 

2d  Spec.  What 's  that  Pym  's  saying  now 

Which  makes  the  curtains  flutter  ?  look  I     A  hand 
Clutches  them.     Ah  !     The  Kino's  hand  I 

bth  Spec.  I  had  thought 

Pym  was  not  near  so  tall.     What  said  he,  friend  ? 

2cZ  Spec.   "  Nor  is  this  way  a  novel  way  of  blood," 
And  the  Earl  turns  as  if  to  .  .  .     Look  !  look  I 


Many  Spjectators. 

There  ! 

What  ails  him  ?    No  - 

—  he  rallies ; 

;   see  —  goes  on, 

And  Strafford  smiles. 

Strange  ! 

An  Officer. 

Haselrig ! 

Many  Spjectators. 

Friend  ?  Friend  ? 

The  Officer.     Lost,  utterly  lost :   just  when  we   looked  for 
Pym 
To  make  a  stand  against  the  ill  effects 
Of  the  Earl's  speech  !     Is  Haselrig  without  ? 
Pym's  message  is  to  him. 

?>d  Spec.  Now,  said  I  true  ? 

Will  the  Earl  leave  them  yet  at  fault  or  no  ? 

Is^  Spec.  Never  believe  it,  man  !    These  notes  of  Vane's 
Ruin  the  Earl. 

Qth  Spjec.         A  brave  end  :  not  a  whit 
Less  firm,  less  Pym  all  over.     Then,  the  trial 
Is  closed.     No  —  Strafford  means  to  speak  again  ! 

An  Officer.  Stand  back,  there ! 

hth  Spec.  Why,  the  Earl  is  coming  hither  ! 

Before  the  court  breaks  up  !     His  brother,  look,  — 
You  'd  say  he  'd  deprecated  some  fierce  act 
In  Strafford's  mind  just  now. 

A71  Officer.  Stand  back,  I  say  ! 

2d  Spec.  Who  's  the  veiled  woman  that  he  talks  with  ? 

Many  Spectators.  Hush  — 
The  Earl !  the  Earl  I 

\_Enter  Strafford,  Slingsby,  and  other  Secretaries,  Hollis,  Lady 
Carlisle,  Maxwell,  Balfour,  etc.  Strafford  cor^erses  iciih 
Lady  Carlisle. 

Hoi.  So  near  the  end  !     Be  patient  — 

Return  ! 

Straf.    \_To  his  Secretaries.]     Here  —  anywhere  —  or,  't  is 
freshest  here  ! 
To  spend  one's  April  here,  the  blossom-month :  •■ 

Set  it  down  here  ! 

[  They  arrange  a  table,  papers,  etc. 
So,  Pym  can  quail,  can  cower 
Because  I  glance  at  him  ;  yet  more  's  to  do. 
What 's  to  be  answered,  Slingsby  ?     Let  us  end  ! 


\ 


STRAFFORD  175 

[To  Lady  Carlisle.]  Child,  I  refuse  his  offer  ;  whatsoe'er 

It  be  !     Too  late  !     Tell  me  no  word  of  him  ! 

'T  is  som.ething,  Hollis,  I  assure  you  that  — 

To  stand,  sick  as  you  are,  some  eighteen  days 

Fighting  for  life  and  fame  against  a  pack 

Of  very  curs,  that  lie  through  thick  and  thin, 

Kat  flesh  and  bread  by  wholesale,  and  can't  say 

"  Strafford  "  if  it  would  take  my  life  ! 

Lady  Car.  Be  moved  ! 

Glance  at  the  paper! 

Straf.  Already  at  my  heels  ! 

Pyni's  faulting  bloodhounds  scent  the  track  again. 
Peace,  child  !     Now,  Slingsby  ! 

[Messengers  from  Lane  and  other  of  Strafford's  Counsel  within 
the  Hall  are  coming  and  going  during  the  Scene. 

Straf.   [setting  himself  to  write  and  dictate.^    I  shall  beat 
you,  Hollis  ! 
Do  you  know  that  ?     In  spite  of  St.  John's  tricks. 
In  spite  of  Pym  —  your  Pym  who  shrank  from  me  ! 
Eliot  would  have  contrived  it  otherwise. 
\_To  a  Messenger.]   In  truth?     This  slip,  tell  Lane,  contains  as 

much 
As  I  can  call  to  mind  about  the  matter. 
Eliot  would  have  disdained  .  .  . 
\_Calli71g  after  the  Messenger.]     And  Radcliffe,  say, 
The  only  person  who  could  answer  Pym, 
Is  safe  in  prison,  just  for  that. 

Well,  well ! 
It  had  not  been  recorded  in  that  case, 
I  baffled  you. 

\_To  Lady  Carlisle.]     Nay,  child,  why  look  so  grieved.'^ 
AH  's  gained  without  the  King  !     You  saw  Pym  quail  ? 
What  shall  I  do  when  they  acquit  me,  think  you. 
But  tranquilly  resume  my  task  as  though 
Nothing  had  intervened  since  I  proposed 
To  call  that  traitor  to  account !      Such  tricks, 
Trust  me,  shall  not  be  played  a  second  time. 
Not  even  against  Laud,  with  his  gray  hair  — 
Your  good  work,  Hollis  !     Peace  !     To  make  amends, 
You,  Lucy,  shall  be  here  when  I  impeach 
Pym  and  his  fellows. 

Hoi.  Wherefore  not  protest 

Against  our  whole  proceeding,  long  ago  ? 
Why  feel  indignant  now  ?     Why  stand  this  while 
Enduring  patiently  ? 

Straf.  ChUd,  I  '11  tell  you  — 


176  STRAFFORD 

You,  and  not  Pym  —  you,  the  slight  graceful  girl 

Tall  for  a  flowering  hly,  and  not  Hollis  — 

Why  I  stood  jiatient  I      I  was  fool  enough 

To  see  the  will  of  England  in  Pym's  will ; 

To  fear,  myself  had  wronged  her,  and  to  wait 

Her  judgment :   when,  behold,  in  place  of  it  .    .  . 

[^To  a  Messenger  who  iuhis2jers.~\   Tell  Lane  to  answer  no  such 

question  I      Law,  — 
I  grapple  with  their  law !      I  'm  here  to  try 
My  actions  by  their  standard,  not  my  own  ! 
Their  law  allowed  that  levy  :  what 's  the  rest 
To  Pym,  or  Lane,  any  but  God  and  me  ? 

Lady  Car.      The    King 's    so    weak  !     Secure    this    chance ! 
'T  was  Vane, 
Never  forget,  who  furnished  Pym  the  notes  .   .  . 

Straf.  Fit,  —  very  fit,  those  precious  notes  of  Vane, 
To  close  the  Trial  worthily !     I  feared 
Some  spice  of  nobleness  might  linger  yet 
And  spoil  the  character  of  all  the  past. 
Vane  eased  me  .  .  .  and  I  will  go  back  and  say 
As  much  —  to  Pym,  to  England  !     Follow  me  I 
I  have  a  word  to  say  I     There,  my  defence 
Is  done ! 

Stay  !  why  be  proud  ?     Why  care  to  own 
My  gladness,  my  surprise  ?  —  Nay,  not  surprise  ! 
Wherefore  insist  upon  the  little  pride 
Of  doing  all  myself,  and  sparing  him 
The  pain  ?     Child,  say  the  triumph  is  my  King's  ! 
When  Pym  grew  pale,  and  trembler],  and  sank  down, 
One  image  was  before  me  :  could  I  fail  ? 
Child,  care  not  for  the  past,  so  indistinct, 
Obscure  —  there  's  nothing  to  forgive  in  it, 
'T  is  so  forgotten !     From  this  day  begins 
A  new  life,  founded  on  a  new  belief 
In  Charles. 

Hul.  In  Charles  ?     Rather  believe  in  Pym  ! 

And  here  he  comes  in  proof  I     Appeal  to  Pym  I 
Say  how  unfair  .   .  . 

Straf.  To  Pym  ?     I  would  say  nothing  ! 

I  would  not  look  upon  Pym's  face  again. 

Lady  Car.  Stay,  let  me  have  to  think  I  pressed  your  liand  I 

[Strafford  and  his  Friends  go  out. 
(Enter  Hampden  and  Vane.) 

Vane.  O  Hampden,  save  the  great  misguided  man ! 
Plead  Strafford's  cause  with  Pym  I  I  have  remarked 
He  moved  no  muscle  when  we  all  declaimed 


STRAFFORD  177 

Against  him  :  you  had  but  to  breathe  —  he  turned 
Those  kind  calm  eyes  upon  you. 

\_Enter  Pym,  the  Solicitor-General  St.  John,  the  Managers  of 
the  Trial,  Fiennes,  Kudyard,  etc. 

Hud.  Horrible ! 

Till  now  all  hearts  were  with  you :  I  withdraw 
For  one.     Too  horrible  !      But  we  mistake 
Your  purpose,  Pym  :  you  cannot  snatch  away 
The  last  spar  from  the  drowning  man. 

Flen.  He  talks 

With  St.  John  of  it  —  see,  how  quietly  ! 

[To  other  Presbyterians.]   You  "11  join  us?     Strafford  may  de- 
serve the  worst : 
But  this  new  course  is  monstrous.     Vane,  take  heart  ! 
This  Bill  of  his  Attainder  shall  not  have 
One  true  man's  hand  to  it. 

Vane.  Consider,  Pym ! 

Confront  your  Bill,  your  own  Bill :   what  is  it  ? 
You  cannot  catch  the  Earl  on  any  charge,  — 
No  man  will  say  the  law  has  hold  of  him 
On  any  charge  ;  and  therefore  you  resolve 
To  take  the  general  sense  on  his  desert, 
As  though  no  law  existed,  and  we  met 
To  found  one.     You  refer  to  Parliament 
To  speak  its  thought  upon  the  abortive  mass 
Of  half  borne-out  assertions,  dubious  hints 
Hereafter  to  be  cleared,  distortions  —  ay, 
And  wild  inventions.     Every  man.  is  saved 
The  task  of  fixing  any  single  charge 
On  Strafford :  he  has  but  to  see  in  him 
The  enemy  of  England. 

Pym.  A  right  scruple  ! 

I  have  heard  some  called  England's  enemy 
With  less  consideration. 

Vane.  Pity  me  ! 

Indeed  you  made  me  think  I  was  your  friend  ! 
I  who  have  murdered  Strafford,  how  remove 
That  memory  from  me  ? 

Pijm.  I  absolve  you.  Vane. 

Take  you  no  care  for  aught  that  you  have  done  I 

Vane.  John  Hampden,  not  this  Bill !     Reject  this  Bill ! 
He  staggers  through  the  ordeal :  let  him  go. 
Strew  no  fresh  lire  before  him  !     Plead  for  us  ! 
When  Strafford  spoke,  your  eyes  were  thick  with  tears  ! 

Hamp.  England  speaks  louder  :  who  are  we,  to  play 
The  generous  j:)ardoner  at  her  expense, 


178  STRAFFORD 

Magnanimously  waive  advantages, 
And,  if  he  conquer  us,  ajjplaud  his  skill  ? 

Vane.  He  was  your  friend. 

Pjm.  I  have  heard  that  before. 

Fieri.  And  England  trusts  you. 

Ham}).  Shame  be  his,  who  turns 

The  opportunity  of  serving  her 
She  trusts  him  with,  to  his  own  mean  account  — 
Who  would  look  nobly  frank  at  her  expense  ! 

Fieri.  I  never  thought  it  could  have  come  to  this. 

Fym.  But  I  have  made  myself  familiar,  Fiennes, 
With  this  one  thought  —  have  walked,  and  sat,  and  slept, 
This  thought  before  me.     I  have  done  such  things, 
Being  the  chosen  man  that  should  destroy 
The  traitor.     You  have  taken  up  this  thought 
To  play  with,  for  a  gentle  stimulant, 
To  give  a  dignity  to  idler  life 
By  the  dim  prospect  of  emprise  to  come, 
But  ever  with  the  softening,  sure  belief, 
That  all  would  end  some  strange  way  right  at  last. 

Fien.  Had  we  made  out  some  weightier  charge ! 

Pym.  You  say 

That  these  are  petty  charges  :  can  we  come 
To  the  real  charge  at  all  ?     There  he  is  safe 
In  tyranny's  stronghold.     Apostasy 
Is  not  a  crime,  treachery  not  a  crime  : 
The  cheek  burns,  the  blood  tingles,  when  you  speak 
The  words,  but  where  's  the  power  to  take  revenge 
Upon  them  ?     We  must  make  occasion  serve,  — 
The  oversight  shall  pay  for  the  main  sin 
That  mocks  us. 

Hud.  But  this  unexampled  course, 

This  Bill  ! 

Pym.         By  this,  we  roll  the  clouds  away 
Of  precedent  and  custom,  and  at  once 
Bid  the  great  beacon-light  God  sets  in  all. 
The  conscience  of  each  bosom,  shine  upon 
The  guilt  of  Strafford  :  each  man  lay  his  hand 
Upon  his  breast,  and  judge  ! 

Vane.  I  only  see 

Strafford,  nor  pass  his  corpse  for  all  beyond  ! 

Hud.  and  others.  Forgive  him  !     He  would   join  us,  now  he 
finds 
What  the  King  counts  reward !     The  pardon,  too, 
Should  1)6  your  own.     Yourself  should  bear  to  Strafford 
The  paidon  of  the  Commons. 


STRAFFORD  179 

Pym.  Meet  him  ?     Strafford  ? 

Have  we  to  meet  once  more,  then  ?     Be  it  so  I 
And  yet  —  the  prophecy  seemed  half  fulfilled 
When,  at  the  Trial,  as  he  gazed,  my  youth, 
Our  friendship,  divers  thoughts  came  back  at  once 
And  left  me,  for  a  time  .   .   .  'T  is  very  sad ! 
To-morrow  we  discuss  the  points  of  law 
With  Lane  —  to-morrow  ? 

V(ine.  Not  before  to-morrow  — 

So,  time  enough  !      I  knew  you  would  relent ! 

Pym.  The  next  day,  Haselrig,  you  introduce 
The  Bill  of  his  Attainder.     Pray  for  me  ! 


Scene  III.     Whitehall. 
The  I^NG. 

Cha.  My  loyal  servant !     To  defend  himself 
Thus  irresistibly,  — withholding  aught 
That  seemed  to  implicate  us  ! 

We  have  done 
Less  gallantly  by  Strafford.  Well,  the  future 
Must  recompense  the  past. 

She  tarries  long. 
I  understand  you,  Strafford,  now  ! 

The  scheme  — 
Carlisle's  mad  scheme  —  he  '11  sanction  it,  I  fear, 
For  love  of  me.     'T  was  too  precipitate  : 
Before  the  army  's  fairly  on  its  march. 
He  '11  be  at  large  :   no  matter. 

Well,  Carlisle? 

{Enter  Pym.) 

Pym.  Fear  me  not,  sir  :  —  my  mission  is  to  save, 
This  time. 

Cha.  To  break  thus  on  me,  unannounced  ! 

Pym.  It  is  of  Strafford  I  would  speak. 

Cha,  No  more 

Of  Strafford !     I  have  heard  too  much  from  you. 

Pym.  I  spoke,  sir,  for  the  People  ;  will  you  hear 
A  word  upon  my  own  account  ? 

Cha.  Of  Strafford? 

(So  turns  the  tide  already  ?     Have  we  tamed 
The  insolent  brawler  ?  —  Strafford's  eloquence 
Is  swift  in  its  effect.)      Lord  Strafford,  sir. 
Has  sj)oken  for  himself. 


180  STRAFFORD 

Pyrti.  Sufficiently. 

I  would  apprise  you  of  the  novel  course 
The  People  take  :  the  Trial  fails. 

Cha.  Yes,  yes : 

We  are  aware,  sir :  for  your  part  in  it 
Means  shall  be  found  to  thank  you. 

Fijm.  I*i'ay  you,  read 

This  schedule  !     I  would  learn  from  your  own  mouth 
—  (It  is  a  matter  nuich  concerning  me)  — 
Whether,  if  two  Estates  of  us  concede 
The  death  of  Strafford,  on  the  grounds  set  forth 
Within  that  parchment,  you,  sir,  can  resolve 
To  grant  your  own  consent  to  it.     That  Bill 
Is  framed  by  me.     If  you  determine,  sir, 
That  England's  manifested  will  should  guide 
Your  judgment,  ere  another  week  such  v>'ill 
Shall  manifest  itself.     If  not,  —  I  cast 
Aside  the  measure. 

Cha.  You  can  hinder,  then, 

The  introduction  of  this  Bill  ? 

Pym.  I  can. 

Cha.  He  is  my  friend,  sir  :  I  have  wronged  him  :  mark  you, 
Had  I  not  wronged  him,  this  might  be.     You  think 
Because  you  hate  the  Earl  .   .   .    (turn  not  away, 
We  know  you  hate  him)  —  no  one  else  could  love 
Strafford  :  but  he  has  saved  me,  some  affirm. 
Think  of  his  pride  !     And  do  you  know  one  strange, 
One  frightful  thing  ?     We  all  have  used  the  man 
As  though  a  drudoe  of  ours,  with  not  a  source 
Of  happy  thoughts  except  in  us  ;  and  yet 
Strafford  has  wife  and  children,  household  cares, 
Just  as  if  we  had  never  been.     Ah,  sir, 
You  are  moved,  even  you,  a  solitary  man 
Wed  to  your  cause  —  to  England  if  you  will  I 

Pym.  Yes  — think,  my  soul  — to  England  !     Draw  not  back  ! 

Cha.  Prevent  that  Bill,  sir  !     All  your  course  seems  fair 
Till  now.      Why,  in  the  end,  't  is  I  should  sign 
The  warrant  for  his  death !     You  have  said  much 
I  ponder  on  ;  I  never  meant,  indeed, 
Strafford  should  serve  me  any  more.     I  take 
The  Commons'  counsel ;  but  this  Bill  is  yours  — 
Nor  worthy  of  its  leader ;  care  not,  sir. 
For  that,  liowever !     I  will  quite  forget 
You  named  it  to  me.     You  are  satisfied  ? 

Pym.   Listen  to  me,  sir  !     Eliot  laid  his  hand, 
W^asted  and  white,  upon  my  forehead  once ; 


STRAFFOIU)  181 

Wentworth  —  he  's  gone  now  I  —  has  talked  on,  whole  nights, 
And  1  heside  liim  ;  Hampden  loves  me  :  sir, 
How  can  I  bieatlie  and  not  wish  England  well, 
And  her  Kino;  well  ? 

Cha.  I  thank  you,  sir,  who  leave 

That  King  his  servant.     Thanks,  sir ! 

Fi/in.  Let  me  speak  ! 

—  Who  niay  not  speak  again  ;  whose  spirit  yearns 
For  a  cool  night  after  this  weary  day  : 

—  Who  would  not  have  my  soul  turn  sicker  yet 
]n  a  new  task,  more  fatal,  more  august, 

More  full  of  England's  utter  weal  or  woe. 

I  thought,  sir,  could  I  find  myself  with  you. 

After  this  trial,  alone,  as  man  to  man  — 

I  might  say  something,  warn  you,  pray  you,  save  — 

INIark  me.   King  Charles,  save  —  you  ! 

But  God  must  do  it.     Yet  I  warn  you,  sir  — 

(With  Strafford's  faded  eyes  yet  full  on  me) 

As  you  would  have  no  deeper  question  moved 

— '"  How  long  the  Many  must  endure  the  One." 

Assure  me,  sir,  if  England  give  assent 

To  Strafford's  death,  you  will  not  interfere  ! 

Or  — 

Cha.  God  forsakes  me.     I  am  in  a  net 
And  cannot  move.     Let  all  be  as  you  say  ! 

{Enter  Lady  Carlisle.) 

Lady  Car.  He  loves  you  —  looking  beautiful  with  joy 
Because  you  sent  me  !  he  would  spare  you  all 
The  pain  I   he  never  dreamed  you  would  forsake 
Your  servant  in  the  evil  day  —  nay,  see 
Your  scheme  returned  I     That  generous  heart  of  his  ! 
He  needs  it  not  —  or,  needing  it,  disdains 
A  course  that  might  endanger  you — you,  sir, 
AYhom  Strafford  from  his  inmost  soul  .  .   . 

[Seehuj  Pym.]  Well  met ! 

No  fear  for  Strafford  !     All  that 's  true  and  brave 
On  your  own  side  shall  helj)  us  :  we  are  now 
Stronsfer  than  ever. 

Ha  —  what,  sir,  is  this  ? 
All  is  not  well  !     What  parchment  have  you  there  ? 

Pijm.   Sir,  much  is  saved  us  both. 

Lady  Car.  This  Bill !     Your  lip 

Whitens  —  you  could  not  read  one  line  to  me, 
Your  voice  would  falter  so ! 


182  STRAFFORD 

Pym,  No  recreant  yet ! 

The  great  word  went  from  England  to  nay  soul, 
And  I  arose.     The  end  is  very  near. 

Lady  Car.  I  am  to  save  him  !     All  have  shrunk  heside 
'T  is  only  I  am  left.     Heaven  will  make  strong 
The  hand  now  as  the  heart.     Then  let  both  die  ! 


ACT  V. 

Scene  I.     Whitehall. 
HoLLis,  Lady  Carlisle. 

Hoi.  Tell  the  King  then  I     Come  in  with  me  ! 

Lady  Car.  Not  so  ! 

He  must  not  hear  till  it  succeeds. 

Hoi.  Succeed  ? 

No  dream  was  half  so  vain  —  you  'd  rescue  Strafford 
And  outwit  Pym  !     I  cannot  tell  you  .  .  .  lady, 
The  block  pursues  me,  and  the  hideous  show. 
To-day  ...  is  it  to-day  ?     And  all  the  while 
He  's  sure  of  the  King's  pardon.     Think,  I  have 
To  tell  this  man  he  is  to  die.     The  King 
May  rend  his  hair,  for  me  !     I  '11  not  see  Strafford  ! 

Lady  Car.  Only,  if  I  succeed,  remember  —  Charles 
Has  saved  him.      He  would  hardly  value  life 
Unless  his  gift.     My  stanch  friends  wait.      Go  in  — 
You  must  go  in  to  Charles  ! 

Hoi.  And  all  beside 

Left  Strafford  long  ago.     The  King  has  signed 
The  warrant  for  his  death  !   the  Queen  was  sick 
Of  tlie  eternal  subject.     For  the  Court,  — 
The  Trial  A\^as  amusing  in  its  way, 
Only  too  much  of  it :  the  Earl  withdrew 
In  time.     But  you,  fragile,  alone,  so  young, 
Amid  rude  mercenaries  —  you  devise 
A  plan  to  save  him  !     Even  though  it  fails, 
What  shall  reward  you  ? 

Jjady  Car.  I  may  go,  you  think, 

To  France  with  him  ?     And  you  reward  me,  friend, 
Who  lived  with  Strafford  even  from  his  youth 
Before  he  set  his  heart  on  state-affairs 
And  they  bent  down  that  noble  brow  of  his. 
I  have  learned  somewhat  of  liis  latter  life. 
And  all  the  future  I  shall  know :  but,  Hollis, 


STRAFFORD  183 

I  ought  to  make  his  youth  my  own  as  well, 
Tell  me,  —  when  he  is  saved  I 

Hoi.  My  gentle  friend, 

He  should  know  all  and  love  you,  but  't  is  vain  ! 

Lady  Car.  Love  ?    no  —  too  late  now !     Let  him  love  the 
King  ! 
'T  is  the  King's  scheme  !     I  have  your  word,  remember  ! 
We  '11  keep  the  old  delusion  up.      But,  quick  ! 
Quick  !      Each  of  us  has  work  to  do,  beside  ! 
Go  to  the  King  !     I  hope  —  Hollis  —  I  hope  ! 
Say  nothing  of  my  scheme !     Hush,  while  we  speak 
Think  where  he  is  !     Now  for  my  gallant  friends  ! 

Hoi.  Where  he  is  ?     Calling  wildly  upon  Charles, 
Guessing  his  fate,  pacing  the  prison-floor. 
Let  the  Kins:  tell  him !     I  '11  not  look  on  Strafford. 


Scene  II.      The  Tower. 

Strafford  sitting  ivith  his  Children,     They  sing. 

O  beir  andare 
Per  barca  in  mare, 
Verso  la  sera 
Di  Primavera ! 

JVllliam.  The  boat 's  in  the  broad  moonlight  all  this  while 

Verso  la  sera 
Di  Primavera ! 

And  the  boat  shoots  from  underneath  the  moon 
Into  the  shadowy  distance  ;  only  still 
You  hear  the  dipping  oar  — 

Verso  la  sera, 

And  faint,  and  fainter,  and  then  all 's  quite  gone. 
Music  and  light  and  all,  like  a  lost  star. 

Anne.  But  you  should  sleep,  father  :  you  were  to  sleep. 

Straf.  I  do  sleep,  Anne  ;  or  if  not  —  you  must  know 
There  's  such  a  thing  as  .  .  . 

Wil.  You  're  too  tired  to  sleep. 

Straf.   It  will  come  by-and-by  and  all  day  long. 
In  that  old  quiet  house  I  told  you  of  : 
We  sleep  safe  there. 

Anne.  Why  not  in  Ireland  ? 

Straf.  ^     No!   ^ 

Too  many  dreams !  —  That  song 's  for  Venice,  William. 
You  know  how  Venice  looks  upon  the  map  — 
Isles  that  the  mainland  hardly  can  let  go  ? 


184  STRAFFORD 

Wil.  You  've  been  to  Venice,  father  ? 

Straf,  I  was  young,  then. 

Wil.  A  city  with  no  King ;  that 's  why  I  like 
Even  a  song  that  comes  from  Venice. 

Straf.  William ! 

Wil.  Oh,  I  know  why  !     Anne,  do  you  love  the  King  ? 
But  1  '11  see  Venice  for  myself  one  clay. 

Straf.  See  many  lands,  boy  —  England  last  of  all,  — 
That  way  you  'U  love  her  best. 

Wil.  Why  do  men  say 

You  sought  to  ruin  her,  then  ? 

Straf.  Ah,  —  they  say  that. 

Wil.  Why? 

Straf.  I  suppose  they  must  have  words  to  say, 

As  you  to  sing. 

A7i7ie.  But  they  make  songs  beside  : 

Last  night  I  heard  one,  in  the  street  beneath, 
That  called  you  .  .  .  Oh,  the  names  ! 

Wil.  Don't  mind  her,  father  ! 

They  soon  left  off  when  I  cried  out  to  them. 

Straf.  We  shall  so  soon  be  out  of  it,  my  boy ! 
'T  is  not  worth  while  :  who  heeds  a  fooHsh  song  ? 

Wil.  Why,  not  the  King. 

Straf.  Well :  it  has  been  the  fate 

Of  better  ;  and  yet,  —  wherefore  not  feel  sure 
That  time,  who  in  the  twilight  comes  to  mend 
All  the  fantastic  day's  caprice,  consign 
To  the  low  ground  once  more  the  ignoble  Term, 
And  raise  the  Genius  on  his  orb  again,  — 
That  time  will  do  me  right  ? 

Anne.  (Shall  we  sing,  William? 

He  does  not  look  thus  when  we  sing.) 

Straf.  For  Ireland, 

Something  is  done  :  too  little,  but  enough 
To  show  what  might  have  been. 

Wil.  (I  have  no  heart 

To  sing  now !     Anne,  how  very  sad  he  looks  ! 
Oh,  I  so  hate  the  King  for  all  he  says  ! ) 

Straf.  Forsook  them  I      What,  the  common  songs  will  run 
That  I  forsook  the  People  ?     Nothing  more  ? 
Ay,  fame,  the  busy  scribe,  will  pause,  no  doubt, 
Turninof  a  deaf  ear  to  her  thousand  slaves 
Noisy  to  be  enrolled,  —  will  register 
The  curious  glosses,  subtle  notices, 
Ingenious  clearings-up  one  fain  would  see 


STRAFFORD  185 

Beside  that  plain  inscription  of  The  Name  — 
The  Patriot  Pyni,  or  the  Apostate  Strafford  ! 

[77ie  Children  resume  their  song  timidly,  hut  break  off, 

{Enter  Hollis  and  an  Attendant.) 

Straf.  No,  —  Hollis  ?  in  good  time  I  —  Who  is  he  ? 

Hoi.  One 

That  nnist  be  present. 

Straf.  Ah  —  I  understand. 

They  will  not  let  me  see  poor  Laud  alone. 
How  politic  !     They  'd  use  me  by  degrees 
To  solitude :  and  just  as  you  came  in 
I  was  solicitous  what  life  to  lead 
When  Strafford  's  "  not  so  much  as  Constable 
In  the  King's  service."     Is  there  any  means 
To  keep  one's  self  awake  ?     What  would  you  do 
After  this  bustle,  Hollis,  in  my  place  ? 

Hal,  Strafford! 

Straf.  Observe,  not  but  that  Pym  and  you 

Will  find  me  news  enough  —  news  I  shall  hear 
Under  a  quince-tree  by  a  fish-pond  side 
At  Wentworth.     Garrard  must  be  re-engaged 
My  newsman.     Or,  a  better  f)roject  now  — 
What  if  when  all 's  consummated,  and  the  Saints 
Reign,  and  the  Senate's  work  goes  swimmingly,  — 
What  if  I  venture  up,  some  day,  unseen, 
To  saunter  through  the  Town,  notice  how  Pym, 
Your  Tribune,  likes  Whitehall,  drop  quietly 
Into  a  tavern,  hear  a  point  discussed. 
As,  whether  Strafford's  name  were  John  or  James  — 
And  be  myself  appealed  to  —  I,  who  shall 
Myself  have  near  forgotten  ! 

Hoi.  I  would  speak  .   .  . 

Straf.  Then  you  shall  speak,  —  not  now.     I  w^ant  just  now 
To  hear  the  sound  of  my  own  tongue.     This  place 
Is  full  of  ghosts. 

Hoi.  Nay,  you  must  hear  me,  Strafford ! 

Straf.  Oh,  readily  I      Only  one  rare  thing  more,  — 
The  minister !     Wlio  will  advise  the  King, 
Turn  his  Sejanus,  Richelieu,  and  what  not. 
And  yet  have  health  —  cliildren,  for  aught  I  know  — 
My  patient  pair  of  traitors  I     Ah,  —  but,  William  — 
Does  not  his  cheek  grow  thin  ? 

Wil.  'T  is  you  look  thin, 

Father  ! 

Straf  A  scamper  o'er  the  breezy  wolds 
Sets  all  to-riohts. 

o 


186  STRAFFORD 

Hoi.  You  cannot  sure  forget 

A  prison-roof  is  o'er  you,  Strafford  ? 

Straf.  No  ; 

Why,  no.     I  would  not  touch  on  that,  the  first. 
I  left  you  that.     Well,  HoUis  ?     Say  at  once, 
The  Kinsf  can  find  no  time  to  set  me  free  ! 
A  mask  at  Theobald's  ? 

Hoi.  Hold  :  no  such  affair 

Detains  him. 

Straf.  True  :  what  needs  so  great  a  matter  ? 

The  Queen's  lip  may  be  sore.     Well :  when  he  pleases,  — 
Only,  I  want  the  air  :  it  vexes  flesh 
To  be  pent  up  so  long. 

Hoi.  The  King  —  I  bear 

His  message,  Strafford  :  pray  you,  let  me  speak  ! 

Straf.  Go,  William  !     Anne,  try  o'er  your  song  again  ! 

\^The  Children  retire. 
They  shall  be  loyal,  friend,  at  all  events. 
I  know  your  message  :  you  have  nothing  new 
To  tell  me  :  from  the  first  I  guessed  as  much. 
I  know,  instead  of  coming  here  himself. 
Leading  me  forth  in  public  by  the  hand. 
The  King  prefers  to  leave  the  door  ajar 
As  though  I  were  escaping  —  bids  me  trudge 
While  the  mob  gapes  upon  some  show  prepared 
On  the  other  side  of  the  river !     Give  at  once 
His  order  of  release  !     I  've  heard,  as  well 
Of  certain  poor  manoeuvres  to  avoid 
The  granting  pardon  at  his  proper  risk  ; 
First,  he  nmst  prattle  somewhat  to  the  Lords, 
Must  talk  a  trifle  \\ith  the  Commons  first. 
Be  grieved  I  should  abuse  his  confidence. 
And  far  from  blaming  them,  and  .  .   .  Where  's  the  order  ? 

Hoi.  Spare  me  ! 

Straf.  Why,  he  'd  not  have  me  steal  away  ? 

With  an  old  doublet  and  a  steeple  hat 
Like  Prynne's  ?     Be  smuggled  into  France,  perhaps  ? 
Hollis,  't  is  for  my  children  !      'T  was  for  them 
I  first  consented  to  stand  day  by  day 
And  give  your  Puritans  the  best  of  words. 
Be  patient,  speak  when  called  upon,  observe 
Their  rules,  and  not  return  them  prompt  their  lie ! 
What  's  in  that  boy  of  mine  that  he  should  prove 
Son  to  a  prison-breaker  ?     I  shall  stay 
And  he  '11  stay  with  me.     Charles  should  know  as  much, 
He  too  has  children  ! 


STRAFFORD  187 

[Turning  to  Hollis's  comjmriion.^     Sir,  you  feel  for  me  ! 
No  need  to  hide  that  face  !     Tliouo-h  it  have  looked 
Upon  me  from  the  judgment-seat  ...  I  know, 
Strangely,  that  somewhere  it  has  looked  on  me  .  .  . 
Your  coming  has  my  pardon,  nay,  my  thanks  : 
For  there  is  one  who  comes  not. 

Hoi.  Whom  forgive, 

As  one  to  die  ! 

Straf.  True,  all  die,  and  all  need 

Forgiveness  :  I  forgive  him  from  my  soul. 

Hoi.  'T  is  a  world's  wonder :   Strafford,  you  must  die  ! 

Straf.  Sir,  if  your  errand  is  to  set  me  free, 
This  heartless  jest  mars  much.     Ha  !     Tears  in  truth  ? 
We  '11  end  this  !      See  this  paper,  warm  —  feel  —  warm 
W^ith  lying  next  my  heart !     Whose  hand  is  there  ? 
Whose  promise  ?     Read,  and  loud  for  God  to  hear  ! 
"  Strafford  shall  take  no  hurt  " —  read  it,  I  say  ! 
"  In  person,  honor,  nor  estate  " — 

Hoi.  The  King  .  .  . 

Straf.  I  could  unking  him  by  a  breath  !     You  sit 
Where  Loudon  sat,  who  came  to  prophesy 
The  certain  end,  and  offer  me  Pym's  grace 
If  I  'd  renounce  the  King :  and  I  stood  firm 
On  the  King's  faith.     The  King  who  lives  .  .   . 

Hoi.  To  sign 

The  warrant  for  your  death. 

Straf.  "  Put  not  your  trust 

In  princes,  neither  in  the  sons  of  men. 
In  whom  is  no  salvation  !  " 

Hoi.  Trust  in  God  ! 

The  scaffold  is  prepared  :  they  wait  for  you  : 
He  has  consented.     Cast  the  earth  behind  ! 

Cha.  You  would  not  see  me,  Strafford,  at  your  foot ! 
It  was  wrung  from  me  !      Only  curse  me  not  I 

Hoi.  \_To  Strafford.]     As  you  hope  grace  and  pardon  in 
your  need. 
Be  merciful  to  this  most  wretched  man  ! 

\_Voicesfrom  within. 

Vei'so  la  sera 
Di  Frimavera. 

Straf.  You  '11  be  ^ood  to  those  children,  sir  ?     I  know 
You  '11  not  lielieve  her,  even  should  the  Queen 
Think  they  take  after  one  they  rarely  saw. 
I  had  intended  that  my  son  should  live 
A  stranger  to  these  matters  :  but  you  are 


lo8  STRAFFORD 

So  utterly  deprived  of  friends  !     He  too 

Must  serve  you  —  will  you  not  be  good  to  him  ? 

Or,  stay,  sir,  do  not  promise  —  do  not  swear  I 

YoLi,  Hollis  —  do  the  best  you  can  for  me  I 

I  've  not  a  soul  to  trust  to  :   Wandesford  's  dead, 

And  you  've  got  Radcliffe  safe,  Laud's  turn  comes  next : 

I  've  found  small  time  of  late  for  my  affairs, 

But  I  trust  any  of  you,  Pym  himself  — 

No  one  could  hurt  them :  there  's  an  infant,  too  — 

These  tedious  cares  !     Your  Majesty  could  spare  them  ! 

Nay  —  pardon  me,  my  King  !     I  had  forgotten 

Your  education,  trials,  much  temptation. 

Some  weakness  :  there  escaped  a  peevish  word  — 

'T  is  gone  :  I  bless  you  at  the  last.     You  know 

All 's  between  you  and  me :  what  has  the  world 

To  do  with  it  ?     Farewell ! 

Cha.  \_at  the  door.~\  Balfour !     Balfour  ! 

{Enter  Balfour.) 

The  Parliament !  —  go  to  them  :  I  grant  all 
Demands.     Their  sittings  shall  be  permanent : 
Tell  them  to  keep  their  money  if  they  will  : 
I  '11  come  to  them  for  every  coat  I  wear 
And  every  crust  I  eat :  only  I  choose 
To  pardon  Strafford.     As  the  Queen  shall  choose  ! 
—  You  never  heard  the  People  howl  for  blood, 
Beside ! 

Bal.  Your  Majesty  may  hear  them  now  : 
The  walls  can  hardly  keep  their  murmurs  out : 
Please  you  retire : 

Cha.  Take  all  the  troops,  Balfour  ! 

Bal.  There  are  some  hundred  thousand  of  the  crowd. 

Cha.  Come  with  me,  vStrafford  ?    You  '11  not  fear,  at  least ! 

Sttx(f.   Balfour,  say  nothing  to  the  world  of  this  I 
I  charge  you,  as  a  dying  man,  forget 
You  gazed  u})on  this  agony  of  one  .   .  . 
Of  one  .  .  .  or  if  .  .  .  why  you  may  say,  Balfour, 
The  King  was  sorry  :   't  is  no  shame  in  him : 
Yes,  you  may  say  he  even  wept,  Balfour, 
And  that  I  walked  the  lighter  to  the  block 
Because  of  it.      I  shall  walk  lightly,  sir ! 
Earth  fades,  heaven  breaks  on  me :  I  shall  stand  next 
Before  God's  throne  :  the  moment 's  close  at  hand 
When  man  the  first,  last  time,  has  leave  to  lay 
His  whole  heart  bare  before  its  maker,  leave 
To  clear  up  the  long  error  of  a  life 


STRAFFORD  189 

And  choose  one  hap})iness  for  evermore. 

AVith  all  mortality  about  me,  Charles, 

The  sudden  wreck,  the  dregs  of  violent  death  — 

What  if,  despite  the  opening  angel-song, 

There  penetrate  one  prayer  for  you  ?     Be  saved 

Through  me  I      Bear  witness,  no  one  could  prevent 

My  death  I     Lead  on  !   ere  he  awake  —  best,  now  ! 

All  must  be  ready  :  did  you  say,  Balfour, 

The  crowd  began  to  murmur  ?     They  '11  be  kept 

Too  late  for  sermon  at  St.  Antholin's  ! 

Now  !   But  tread  softly  —  cliildren  are  at  play 

In  the  next  room.     Precede,  I  follow  — 

(Enter  Lady  Carlisle,  with  many  Attendants.) 

Lady  Car.  Me ! 

Follow  me,  Strafford,  and  be  saved  !     The  King  ? 
\^To  the  KiXG.]   Well  —  as  you  ordered,  they  are  ranged  with- 
out. 
The  convoy  .  .  .  \_seeing  the  King's  state.^ 
\_To  Strafford.]  You  know  all,  then  !     Why,  I  thought 
It  looked  best,  that  the  King  should  save  you,  Charles 
Alone ;   'tis  a  shame  that  you  should  owe  me  aught- 
Or  no,  not  shame  I      Strafford,  you  '11  not  feel  shame 
At  being  saved  by  me  ? 

HoL  '  All  true!     Oh  Strafford, 

She  saves  you  !  all  her  deed  !  this  lady's  deed  I 
And  is  the  boat  in  readiness  ?     You,  friend, 
Are  Billingsley,  no  doubt !     Speak  to  her,  Strafford  ! 
See  how  she  trembles,  waiting  for  your  voice  ! 
The  world  's  to  learn  its  bravest  story  yet ! 

Lady  Car.  Talk  afterward  !     Long  nights  in  France  enough, 
To  sit  beneath  the  vines  and  talk  of  home. 

Straf.  You  love  me,  child  ?     Ah,  Strafford  can  be  loved 
As  well  as  Vane  !     I  could  escape,  then  H 

Lady  Car.  Haste! 

Advance  the  torches,  Bryan  ! 

Straf.  I  will  die. 

They  call  me  proud  :  but  England  had  no  right, 
When  she  encountered  me  —  her  strength  to  mine  — 
To  find  the  chosen  foe  a  craven.     Girl, 
I  fought  her  to  the  utterance,  I  fell, 
I  am  hers  now,  and  I  will  die.      Beside, 
The  lookers  on !     Eliot  is  all  about 
This  place,  with  his  most  uncomjilaining  brow. 

Lady  Car.  Strafford ! 

Straf.  I  think  if  you  could  know  how  much 

I  love  you,  you  would  be  repaid,  my  friend  ! 


190  STRAFFORD 

Lady  Car.  Then,  for  my  sake ! 

Straf.  Even  for  your  sweet  sake, 

I  stay. 

Hoi.  For  their  sake ! 

Straf.  To  bequeath  a  stain  ? 

Leave  me  !     Girl,  humor  me  and  let  me  die  ! 

Lady  Car.  Bid  him  escape  —  wake.  King  !    Bid  him  escape  ! 

Straf.   True,  I  will  go  !     Die,  and  forsake  the  King  ? 
I  '11  not  draw  back  from  the  last  service. 

Lady  Car.  Strafford  ! 

Straf.  And,  after  all,  what  is  disgrace  to  me  ? 

Let  us  come,  child  !     That  it  should  end  this  way, 
Lead  then  !  but  I  feel  strangely  :  it  was  not 
To  end  this  way. 

Lady  Car.  Lean  —  lean  on  me  ! 

Straf  My  King ! 

Oh,  had  he  trusted  me  —  his  friend  of  friends ! 

Lady  Car.  I  can  support  him,  Hollis  ! 

Straf.  Not  this  way  ! 

This  gate  —  I  dreamed  of  it,  this  very  gate. 

Lady  Car.  It  opens  on  the  river :   our  good  boat 
Is  moored  below  ;  our  friends  are  there. 

Straf  The  same : 

Only  with  something  ominous  and  dark. 
Fatal,  inevitable. 

Lady  Car.  Strafford  !  Strafford  ! 

Straf  Not  by  this  gate  !     I  feel  what  will  be  there  ! 
I  dreamed  of  it,  I  tell  you  :  touch  it  not ! 

Lady  Car.  To  save  the  King,  —  Strafford,  to  save  the  Kin;i- 1 
\^As  Strafford  opens  the  door,  Pym  is   discovered  with  Hampdkn, 

YA^SK,  etc.     Straf¥ ORB  falls  hack;  Pym  follows   slowly  and  con- 
fronts him. 

Pym.  Have  I   done  well  ?     Speak,    England  !     Whose  sole 
sake 
I  still  liave  labored  for,  with  disregard 
To  my  own  heart,  —  for  whom  my  youth  was  made 
Barren,  my  manhood  waste,  to  offer  uj) 
Her  saci'ifice  —  this  friend,  this  Wentworth  here  — 
Who  walked  in  youth  with  me,  loved  me,  it  may  be, 
And  whom,  for  his  forsaking  England's  cause, 
I  hunted  by  all  means  (trusting  that  she 
Would  sanctify  all  means)  even  to  the  block 
Which  waits  for  liim.     And  sayhig  this,  I  feel 
No  bitterer  pang  than  first  I  felt,  the  hour 
I  swore  that  Wentworth  might  leave  us,  but  I 
Would  never  leave  him  :  I  do  leave  him  now. 


STRAFFORD  191 

I  render  up  my  charge  (be  witness,  God  !) 

To  England  who  imposed  it.     I  have  done 

Her  bidding  —  jjoorly,  wrongly,  —  it  may  be, 

With  ill  effects — for  I  am  weak,  a  man  : 

Still,  I  have  done  my  best,  my  human  best, 

Not  faltering  for  a  moment.     It  is  done. 

And  this  said,  if  I  say  .  .  .  yes,  I  will  say 

I  never  loved  but  one  man —  David  not 

More  Jonathan  !     Even  thus,  I  love  him  now : 

And  look  for  my  chief  portion  in  that  world 

Where  great  hearts  led  astray  are  turned  againj 

(Soon  it  may  be,  and,  certes,  will  be  soon  : 

My  mission  over,  I  shall  not  live  long,)  — 

Ay,  here  I  know  I  talk  —  I  dare  and  must. 

Of  England,  and  her  great  reward,  as  all 

I  look  for  there  ;  but  in  my  inmost  heart, 

Believe,  I  think  of  stealing  quite  away 

To  walk  once  more  with  Wentworth  —  my  youth's  friend 

Purged  from  all  error,  gloriously  renewed, 

And  Eliot  shall  not  blame  us.     Then  indeed  .  .  . 

This  is  no  meeting,  Wentworth!     Tears  increase 

Too  hot.     A  thin  mist  —  is  it  blood  ?  —  enwraps 

The  face  I  loved  once.     Then,  the  meeting  be  ! 

Straf.  I  have  loved  England  too  ;  we  '11  meet  then,  Pym  ; 
As  well  die  now  !      Youth  is  the  only  time 
To  think  and  to  decide  on  a  great  course  : 
Manhood  with  action  follows ;  but 't  is  dreary 
To  have  to  alter  our  wliole  life  in  a^e  — 
The  time  past,  the  strength  gone  !     As  well  die  now. 
When  we  meet,  Pym,  I  'd  be  set  right  —  not  now  ! 
Best  die.     Then  if  there  's  any  fault,  it  too 
Dies,  smothered  up.     Poor  gray  old  little  Laud 
May  dream  his  dream  out,  of  a  perfect  Church, 
In  some  blind  corner.     And  there  's  no  one  left. 
I  trust  the  King  now  wholly  to  you,  Pym  ! 
And  yet,  I  know  not :   I  shall  not  be  there  : 
Friends  fail  —  if  he  have  any.     And  he  's  weak, 
And  loves  the  Queen,  and  .  .  .  Oh,  my  fate  is  nothing  — 
Nothing  I      But  not  that  awful  head  —  not  that ! 

Fijm.  If  England  shall  declare  such  will  to  me  .  .  . 

Straf.  Pym,  you  help  England  !     I,  that  am  to  die. 
What  I  must  see  !   't  is  here  —  all  here  !     My  God, 
Let  me  but  gasp  out,  in  one  word  of  fire. 
How  thou  wilt  plague  him,  satiating  hell ! 
What  ?     England  that  you  help,  become  through  you 
A  green  and  putrefying  charnel,  left 


192  STRAFFORD 

Our  children  .  ,  .  some  of  us  have  children,  Pym  — 

Some  who,  without  that,  still  must  ever  wear 

A  darkened  brow,  an  over-serious  look, 

And  never  properly  be  young  !     No  word  ? 

What  if  I  curse  you  ?     Send  a  strong  curse  forth 

Clothed  from  my  heart,  lapped  round  with  horror  till 

She  's  fit  with  her  white  face  to  walk  the  world 

Scaring  kind  natures  from  your  cause  and  you  — 

Then  to  sit  down  with  you  at  the  board-head. 

The  gathering  for  prayer  .  .  .  O  speak,  but  speak ! 

.  .  .  Creep  up,  and  quietly  follow  each  one  home, 

You,  you,  you,  be  a  nestling  care  for  each 

To  sleep  with,  —  hardly  moaning  in  his  dreams, 

She  gnaws  so  quietly,  —  till,  lo  he  starts. 

Gets  off  with  half  a  heart  eaten  away ! 

Oh  shall  you  'scape  with  less  if  she  's  my  child  ? 

You  will  not  say  a  word  —  to  me  —  to  Him  ? 

Fym.  If  England  shall  declare  such  will  to  me  ... 

Straf.  No,  not  for  England  now,  not  for  Heaven  now,  — 
See,  Pym,  for  my  sake,  mine  who  kneel  to  you ! 
There,  I  will  thank  you  for  the  death,  my  friend ; 
This  is  the  meeting :  let  me  love  you  well ! 

Pijm.  England,  —  I  am  thine  own !     Dost  thou  exact 
That  service  ?     I  obey  thee  to  the  end. 

Straf.  0  God,  I  shaU  die  first—  I  shaU  die  first  !^^><^  ^  ^  • 


SORDELLO 

1840 

TO  J.  MILSAND,  OF  DIJON. 

Dear  Friend  :  Let  the  next  poem  be  introduced  by  your  name,  there- 
fore remembered  along  with  one  of  the  deepest  of  my  affections,  and  so  re- 
pay all  trouble  it  ever  cost  me.  I  wrote  it  twenty-five  years  ago  for  only  a 
few,  counting  even  in  these  on  somewhat  more  care  about  its  subject  than 
they  really  had.  My  own  faults  of  expression  were  many  ;  but  with  care 
for  a  man  or  book  such  would  be  surmounted,  and  without  it  what  avails 
the  faultlessness  of  either  ?  I  blame  nobody,  least  of  all  myself,  who  did 
my  best  then  and  since  ;  for  I  lately  gave  time  and  pains  to  turn  my  work 
into  what  the  many  might  —  instead  of  what  the  few  must  —  like  ;  but 
after  all,  I  imagined  another  thing  at  first,  and  therefoi*e  leave  as  I  find  it. 
The  historical  decoration  was  purposely  of  no  more  importance  than  a 
backgroimd  requires  ;  and  my  stress  lay  on  the  incidents  in  the  develop- 
ment of  a  soul :  little  else  is  worth  study.  I,  at  least,  always  thought  so  ; 
you,  \vith  many  known  and  unknown  to  me,  think  so ;  others  may  one 
day  think  so  ;  and  whether  my  attempt  remain  for  them  or  not,  I  trust, 
though  away  and  past  it,  to  continue  ever  yours. 


R.  B. 


LONDOX,  June  9,  18C3. 


BOOK  THE  FIRST. 

Who  will,  may  hear  Sorclello's  story  told  : 
His  story  ?     Who  beUeves  me  shall  behold 
The  man,  jmrsue  his  fortunes  to  the  end, 
Like  me  :  for  as  the  friendless-people's  friend 
Spied  from  his  hill-top  once,  despite  the  din 
And  dust  of  multitudes,  Pentapolin 
Named  o'  the  Naked  Arm,  I  single  out 
Sordello,  compassed  murkily  about 
With  ravage  of  six  long  sad  hundred  years. 
Only  believe  me.     Ye  beheve  ? 

Appears 
Verona  .  .  .  Never,  I  should  warn  you  first, 
Of  my  own  choice  had  this,  if  not  the  worst 
Yet  not  the  best  expedient,  served  to  tell 


194  SORDELLO 

A  story  I  could  body  forth  so  well 

By  making  speak,  myself  kept  out  of  view, 

The  very  man  as  he  was  wont  to  do, 

And  leaving  you  to  say  the  rest  for  him. 

Since,  though  I  might  be  proud  to  see  the  dim 

Abysmal  past  divide  its  hateful  surge, 

Letting  of  all  men  this  one  man  emerge 

Because  it  pleased  me,  yet,  that  moment  past, 

I  should  delight  in  watching  first  to  last 

His  progress  as  you  watch  it,  not  a  whit 

More  in  the  secret  than  yourselves  who  sit 

Fresh-chapleted  to  listen.     But  it  seems 

Your  setters-forth  of  unexampled  themes, 

Makers  of  quite  new  men,  producing  them. 

Would  best  chalk  broadly  on  each  vesture's  hem 

The  wearer's  quality  ;  or  take  their  stand. 

Motley  on  back  and  pointing-pole  in  hand. 

Beside  him.     So,  for  once  I  face  ye,  friends. 

Summoned  together  from  the  world's  four  ends, 

Dropped  down  from  heaven  or  cast  up  from  hell. 

To  hear  the  story  I  propose  to  tell. 

Confess  now,  poets  know  the  dragnet's  trick. 

Catching  the  dead,  if  fate  denies  the  quick. 

And  shaming  her  ;   't  is  not  for  fate  to  choose 

Silence  or  song  because  she  can  refuse 

Real  eyes  to  glisten  more,  real  hearts  to  ache 

Less  oft,  real  brows  turn  smoother  for  our  sake  : 

I  have  experienced  something  of  her  spite  ; 

But  there  's  a  realm  wherein  she  has  no  rioht 

And  I  have  many  lovers.      Say,  but  few 

Friends  fate  accords  me  ?     Here  they  are  :  now  view 

The  host  I  muster !     Many  a  lighted  face 

Foul  with  no  vestige  of  the  grave's  disgrace ; 

What  else  should  tempt  them  back  to  taste  our  air 

Except  to  see  how  their  successors  fare  ? 

My  audience  !   and  they  sit.  each  ghostly  man 

Striving  to  look  as  living  as  he  can, 

Brother  by  breathing  brother  ;  thou  art  set. 

Clear- witted  critic,  by   .   .   .  but  I  "11  not  fret 

A  wondrous  soul  of  them,  nor  move  death's  spleen 

Who  loves  not  to  unlock  them.     Friends  !  I  mean 

The  living  in  good  earnest  —  ye  elect 

Chiefly  for  love  —  suppose  not  I  reject 

Judicious  praise,  who  contrary  shall  peep. 

Some  fit  occasion,  forth,  for  fear  ye  sleep. 

To  glean  your  bland  approvals.     Then,  appear, 


SHELLEY  DEPAirriNG,    VEllONA  APPEARS      195 

Verona  !   stay  —  thou,  sjjirit,  come  not  near 

Now  —  not  this  time  desert  thy  cloudy  place 

To  scare  me,  thus  employed,  with  that  pure  face ! 

I  need  not  fear  this  audience,  I  make  free 

With  them,  but  then  this  is  no  place  for  thee ! 

The  thunder-phrase  of  the  Athenian,  grown 

Up  out  of  memories  of  Marathon, 

Would  echo  like  his  own  sword's  griding  screech 

Braying  a  Persian  shield,  —  the  silver  si^eech 

Of  Sidney's  self,  the  starry  paladin. 

Turn  intense  as  a  trumpet  sounding  in 

The  knights  to  tilt,  —  wert  thou  to  hear  !     What  heart 

Have  I  to  play  my  puppets,  bear  my  part 

Before  these  worthies  ? 

Lo,  the  past  is  hurled 
In  twain  :  up-thrust,  out-staggering  on  the  world, 
Subsiding  into  shape,  a  darkness  rears 
Its  outline,  kindles  at  the  core,  appears 
Verona.      'T  is  six  hundred  years  and  more 
Since  an  event.     The  Second  Friedrich  wore 
The  purple,  and  the  Third  Honorius  filled 
The  holy  chair.     That  autumn  eve  was  stilled ; 
A  last  remains  of  sunset  dimly  burned 
O'er  the  far  forests,  like  a  torch-flame  turned 
By  the  wind  back  upon  its  bearer's  hand 
In  one  long  flare  of  crimson ;  as  a  brand. 
The  woods  beneath  lay  black.     A  single  eye 
From  all  Verona  cared  for  the  soft  sky. 
But,  gathering  in  its  ancient  market-place, 
Talked  group  with  restless  group ;  and  not  a  face 
But  wrath  made  livid,  for  among  them  were 
Death's  stanch  purveyors,  such  as  have  in  care 
To  feast  him.     Fear  had  long  since  taken  root 
In  every  breast,  and  now  these  crushed  its  fruit. 
The  ripe  hate,  like  a  wine  :  to  note  the  way 
It  worked  while  each  grew  drunk  !     Men  grave  and  gray 
Stood,  with  shut  eyelids,  rocking  to  and  fro. 
Letting  the  silent  luxury  trickle  slow 
About  the  hollows  where  a  heart  should  be  ; 
But  the  young  gulped  with  a  delirious  glee 
Some  foretaste  of  their  first  debauch  in  blood 
At  the  fierce  news :  for,  be  it  understood. 
Envoys  apprised  Verona  that  her  prince 
Count  Richard  of  Saint  Boniface,  joined  since 
A  year  with  Azzo,  Este's  Lord,  to  thrust 
Taurello  Salinguerra,  prime  in  trust 


196  SORDELLO 

With  Ecelin  Romano,  from  his  seat 
Ferrara,  —  over-zealous  in  the  feat 
And  stumbling-  on  a  peril  unaware, 
Was  captive,  trammelled  in  his  proper  snare, 
They  phrase  it,  taken  by  his  own  intrigue. 
Innnediate  succor  from  the  Lombard  Leaofue 
Of  fifteen  cities  that  affect  the  Pope, 
For  Azzo,  therefore,  and  his  fellow-hope 
Of  the  Guelf  cause,  a  glory  overcast  I 
Men's  faces,  late  agape,  are  now  aghast. 
"  Prone  is  the  purple  jjavis  ;  Este  makes 
Mirth  for  the  devil  when  he  undertakes 
To  play  the  Ecelin  ;  as  if  it  cost 
Merely  your  pushing-by  to  gain  a  post 
Like  his  !     The  patron  tells  ye,  once  for  all, 
There  be  sound  reasons  that  preferment  fall 
On  our  beloved  "... 

"  Duke  o'  the  Rood,  why  not  ?  " 
Shouted  an  Estian,  "  grudge  ye  such  a  lot  ? 
The  hill-cat  boasts  some  cunning  of  her  own. 
Some  stealthy  trick  to  better  beasts  unknown. 
That  quick  with  prey  enough  her  imnger  blunts. 
And  feeds  her  fat  while  gaunt  the  lion  hunts." 

"  Taurello,"  quoth  an  envoy,  "  as  in  wane 
Dwelt  at  Ferrara.      Like  an  osprey  fain 
To  fly  but  forced  the  earth  his  couch  to  make 
Far  inland,  till  his  friend  the  tem])est  wake, 
Waits  he  the  Kaiser's  coming  ;  and  as  yet 
That  fast  friend  sleeps,  and  he  too  sleejjs  :  bat  let 
Only  the  billow  freshen,  and  he  snuffs 
The  aroused  hurricane  ere  it  enroughs 
The  sea  it  means  to  cross  because  of  him. 
Sinketh  the  breeze  ?     His  hope-sick  eye  grows  dim ; 
Creep  closer  on  the  creature  !     Every  day 
Strengthens  the  Pontiff  ;  Ecelin,  they  say, 
Dozes  now  at  Oliero,  with  dry  lips 
Telling  u])on  his  perished  finger-tips 
How^  many  ancestors  are  to  depose 
Ere  he  be  Satan's  Viceroy  wdien  the  doze 
Deposits  him  in  hell.     So,  Guelfs  rebuilt 
Tlinir  liouses  ;   not  a  drop  of  blood  was  spilt 
When  Cino  Bocchimpane  chanced  to  meet 
Buccio  Virtu  —  God's  wafer,  and  the  street 
Is  narrow  !     Tutti  Santi,  think,  a-swarm 
With  Ghibellins,  and  yet  he  took  no  harm  I 
This  could  not  last.     Off  Salinguerra  went 


WHY  THEY  ENTREAT  THE  LOMBARD  LEAGUE    197 

To  Padua,  Podesta,  '  with  pure  intent,' 

Said  he,  '  my  presence,  judged  the  single  bar 

To  permanent  tranquillity,  may  jar 

No  longer '  —  so  I   his  back  is  fairly  turned  ? 

The  pair  of  goodly  palaces  are  burned. 

The  gardens  ravaged,  and  our  Guelfs  laugh,  drunk 

A  week  with  joy.     The  next,  their  laughter  sunk 

In  sobs  of  blood,  for  they  found,  some  strange  way, 

Old  Salinguerra  back  again  —  I  say, 

Old  Salinouerra  in  the  town  once  more 

Uprooting,  overturning,  flame  before. 

Blood  fetlock-high  beneath  him.     Azzo  fled  ; 

Who  'scaped  the  carnage  followed  ;  then  the  dead 

Were  pushed  aside  from  Salinguerra's  throne, 

He  ruled  once  more  Ferrara,  all  alone. 

Till  Azzo,  stunned  aw^hile,  revived,  would  pounce 

Coupled  with  Boniface,  like  lynx  and  ounce, 

On  the  gorged  bird.     The  burghers  ground  their  teeth 

To  see  troop  after  troop  encamp  beneath 

I'  the  standing  corn  thick  o'er  the  scanty  patch 

It  took  so  many  patient  months  to  snatch 

Out  of  the  marsh  ;   while  just  within  their  walls 

Men  fed  on  men.     At  length  Taurello  calls 

A  parley  :   '  let  the  Count  wind  up  the  war !  ' 

Richard,  light-hearted  as  a  plunging  star. 

Agrees  to  enter  for  the  kindest  ends 

Ferrara,  flanked  w^ith  fifty  chosen  friends. 

No  horse-boy  more,  for  fear  your  timid  sort 

Should  fly  Ferrara  at  the  bare  report. 

Quietly  through  the  town  they  rode,  jog-jog ; 

'  Ten,  tw^enty,  thirty,  —  curse  the  catalogue 

Of  burnt  Guelf  houses  !     Strange,  Taurello  shows 

Not  the  least  sign  of  l!fe  '  —  whereat  arose 

A  general  growl :   "  How  ?     With  his  victors  by  ? 

I  and  my  Veronese  ?     My  troops  and  I  ? 

Receive  us,  was  your  word  ?  '    So  jogged  they  on, 

Nor  laughed  their  host  too  openly  :   once  gone 

Into  the  trap  !  "  — 

Six  hundred  years  ago  ! 
Such  the  time's  aspect  and  peculiar  w^oe 
(Yourselves  may  spell  it  yet  in  chronicles, 
Albeit  the  worm,  our  busy  brother,  drills 
His  sprawling  path  through  letters  anciently 
Made  fine  and  large  to  suit  some  abbot's  eye) 
When  the  new  Holienstauft'en  dropped  the  mask, 
Flung  John  of  Briennes  favor  from  his  casque. 


198  SORDELLO 

Forswore  crusading,  had  no  mind  to  leave 
Saint  Peter's  proxy  leisure  to  retrieve 
Losses  to  Otho  and  to  Barbaross, 
Or  make  the  Alps  less  easy  to  reeross  ; 
And,  thus  confirming  Pope  Ilonorius'  fear, 
AVas  excommunicate  that  very  year. 
"  The  triple-bearded  Teuton  come  to  life  I  " 
Groaned  the  Great  League  ;  and,  arming  for  the  strife, 
Wide  Lombardy,  on  tiptoe  to  begin, 
Took  up,  as  it  was  Guelf  or  Ghibellin, 
Its  cry  ;   what  cry  ? 

''  The  Emperor  to  come  !  "  . 
His  crowd  of  feudatories,  all  and  some. 
That  leapt  down  with  a  crash  of  swords,  spears,  shields, 
One  fighter  on  his  fellow,  to  our  fields. 
Scattered  anon,  took  station  here  and  there, 
And  carried  it,  till  now,  with  little  care  — 
Cannot  but  cry  for  him  ;  how  else  rebut 
Us  longer  ?     Cliffs,  an  earthquake  suffered  jut 
In  the  mid-sea,  each  domineering  crest, 
Nothing  save  such  another  throe  can  wrest 
From  out  (conceive)  a  certain  chokeweed  grown 
Since  o'er  the  waters,  twine  and  tangle  thrown 
Too  thick,  too  fast  accumulating  round, 
Too  sure  to  over-riot  and  confound 
Ere  long  each  brilliant  islet  with  itself 
Unless  a  second  shock  save  shoal  and  shelf, 
Whirling  the  sea-drift  wide  :  alas,  the  bruised 
And  sullen  wreck  !      Sunlioht  to  be  diffused 
For  that !      Sunlight,  'neath  which,  a  scum  at  first, 
The  million  fibres  of  our  chokeweed  nurst 
Dis])read  themselves,  mantling  the  troubled  main, 
And,  shattered  by  those  rocks,  took  hold  again, 
So  kindly  blazed  it  —  that  same  blaze  to  brood 
O'er  every  chister  of  the  multitude 
Still  hazarding  new  clas])s,  ties,  filaments, 
An  emulous  exchange  of  pulses,  vents 
Of  nature  into  nature  ;  till  some  growth 
Unfancied  yet,  exuberantly  clothe 
A  surface  solid  now,  continuous,  one  : 
"  The  Pope,  for  us  the  People,  who  begun 
The  People,  carries  on  the  People  thus, 
To  keep  that  Kaiser  off  and  dwell  with  us  !  " 
See  you  ? 

Or  say.  Two  Principles  that  live 
Each  fitly  by  its  Representative. 


ECELO'S  HOUSE  AND  AZZO,  LORD  OF  ESTE    199 

"  Hill-cat  "  —  who  called  him  so  ?  —  the  gracefiillest 
Adventurer,  the  ambiguous  stranoer-guest 
Of  Lombardy  (sleek  but  that  ruffling  fur. 
Those  talons  to  their  sheath  I)  whose  velvet  purr 
Soothes  jealous  neighbors  when  a  Saxon  scout 

—  Arpo  or  Yoland,  is  it  ?  —  one  without 
A  country  or  a  name,  presumes  to  couch 
Beside  their  noblest ;  until  men  avouch 
That,  of  all  Houses  in  the  Trevisan, 
Conrad  descries  no  fitter,  rear  or  van, 

Than  Ecelo !     They  laughed  as  they  enrolled 

Tliat  name  at  Milan  on  the  page  of  gold, 

Godego's  lord,  —  Ramon,  Marostica, 

Cartiglion,  Bassano,  Loria, 

And  every  sheep-cote  on  the  Suabian's  fief  I 

No  laughter  when  his  son,  "  the  Lombard  Chief  " 

Forsooth,  as  Barbarossa's  path  was  bent 

To  Italy  along  the  Vale  of  Trent, 

Welcomed  him  at  Roncaoiia  I      Sadness  now  — 

The  hamlets  nested  on  the  Tyrol's  brow, 

The  Asolan  and  Euganean  hills, 

The  Rhetian  and  the  Julian,  sadness  fills 

Them  all,  for  Ecelin  vouchsafes  to  stay 

Among  and  care  about  them  ;  day  by  day 

Choosing  this  pinnacle,  tlie  other  spot, 

A  castle  building  to  defend  a  cot, 

A  cot  built  for  a  castle  to  defend, 

Nothing  but  castles,  castles,  nor  an  end 

To  boasts  how  mountain  ridge  may  join  with  ridge 

By  sunken  gallery  and  soaring  bridge. 

He  takes,  in  brief,  a  figure  that  beseems 

The  grisliest  nightmare  of  the  Church's  dreams, 

—  A  Signory  firm-rooted,  unestranged 
From  its  old  interests,  and  nowise  changed 

By  its  new  neighborhood  :  perchance  the  vaunt 

Of  Otho,  "■  my  own  Este  shall  supi)larit 

Your  Este,"  come  to  pass.     The  sire  led  in 

A  son  as  cruel  ;  and  this  Ecelin 

Had  sons,  in  turn,  and  daughters  sly  and  tall 

And  curling  and  compliant  ;  but  for  all 

Romano  (so  they  styled  him)  throve,  that  neck 

Of  his  so  pinched  and  white,  that  hungry  cheek 

Proved  'twas  some  fiend,  not  him,  the  man's-flesh  went 

To  feed  :  whereas  Romano's  instrument. 

Famous  Taurello  Salinguerra,  sole 

I'  the  world,  a  tree  whose  boughs  were  slipt  the  bole 


200  SORDELLO 

Successively,  why  should  not  he  shed  blood 
To  further  a  design  ?     Men  understood 
Living  was  jjleasant  to  him  as  he  wore 
His  careless  surcoat,  glanced  some  missive  o'er, 
ProjDped  on  his  truncheon  in  the  public  way. 
While  his  lord  lifted  writhen  hands  to  pray, 
Lost  at  Oliero's  convent. 

Hill-cats,  face 
Our  Azzo,  our  Guelf-Lion  !     Why  disgrace 
A  worthiness  conspicuous  near  and  far 
(Atii  at  Rome  while  free  and  consular, 
Este  at  Padua  who  repulsed  tlie  Hun) 
By  trumpeting  the  Church's  princely  son  ? 
—  Styled  Patron  of  Rovigo's  Polesine, 
Ancona's  march,  Ferrara's  .  .   .  ask,  in  fine, 
Our  chronicles,  commenced  when  some  old  monk 
Found  it  intolerable  to  be  sunk 
(Vexed  to  the  quick  by  his  revolting  cell) 
Quite  out  of  summer  while  alive  and  well : 
Ended  when  by  his  mat  the  Prior  stood, 
'Mid  busy  prom])tings  of  the  brotherhood, 
Striving  to  coax  from  his  decrepit  brains 
The  reason  Father  Porphyry  took  j^ains 
To  blot  those  ten  lines  out  which  used  to  stand 
First  on  their  charter  drawn  by  Uildebrand. 

The  same  night  wears.     Verona's  rule  of  yore 
Was  vested  in  a  certain  Twenty-four  ; 
And  while  within  his  palace  these  debate 
Concerning  Richard  and  Ferrara's  fate, 
GUde  we  by  clapping  doors,  with  sudden  glare 
Of  cressets  vented  on  the  dark,  nor  care 
For  aught  that 's  seen  or  heard  until  we  shut 
The  smother  in,  the  liglits,  all  noises  but 
The  carroch's  booming  :   safe  at  last !      Why  strange 
Such  a  recess  should  lurk  behind  a  ranw 
Of  banquet-rooms  ?     Your  finger  —  thus  — you  push 
A  spring,  and  the  wall  opens,  would  you  rush 
Upon  the  banqueters,  select  your  prey. 
Waiting  (the  slaughter-wea])ons  in  the  way 
Strewing  this  very  bench)  with  sharpened  ear 
A  preconcerted  signal  to  appear  ; 
Or  if  you  simply  crouch  with  beating  heart, 
Bearing  in  some  voluptuous  pageant  i)art 
To  startle  them.     Nor  mutes  nor  masquers  now ; 
Nor  any  .  .   .  does  that  one  man  sleep  whose  brow 
The  dying  lamp-flame  sinks  and  rises  o'er  ? 


COUNT  RICHARD'S   PALACE   AT    VERONA       201 

What  woman  stood  beside  him  ?  not  the  more 
Is  lie  unfastened  from  the  earnest  eyes 
Because  that  arras  fell  between  !      Her  wise 
And  lulling-  words  are  yet  about  the  room, 
Her  presence  wholly  poured  upon  the  gloom 
Down  even  to  her  vesture's  creeping  stir. 
And  so  reclines  he,  saturate  with  her, 
Until  an  outcry  from  the  square  beneath 
Pierces  the  charm :  he  s})rings  up,  glad  to  breathe, 
Above  the  cunning  element,  and  shakes 
The  stupor  ott'  as  (look  you)  morning  breaks 
On  the  gay  dress,  and,  near  concealed  by  it. 
The  lean  frame  like  a  half-burnt  taper,  lit 
Erst  at  some  marriage-feast,  then  laid  away 
Till  the  Armenian  bridegroom's  dying  day, 
In  his  wool  wedding-robe. 

For  he  —  for  he, 
Gate-vein  of  this  hearts'  blood  of  Lombardy, 
(If  I  should  falter  now)  — for  he  is  thine  ! 
Sordello,  thy  forerunner,  Florentine  ! 
A  herald-star  I  know  thou  didst  absorb 
Relentless  into  the  consummate  orb 
That  scared  it  from  its  right  to  roll  along 
A  sempiternal  path  with  dance  and  song 
Fulfilling  its  allotted  period, 
Serenest  of  the  progeny  of  God  — 
Who  yet  resigns  it  not !     His  darling  stoops 
With  no  quenched  lights,  desponds  with  no  blank  troops 
Of  disenfranchised  brilliances,  for,  blent 
Utterly  with  thee,  its  shy  element 
Like  thine  upburneth  prosperous  and  clear, 
Still,  what  if  I  approach  the  august  sphere 
Named  now  with  only  one  name,  disentwine 
That  under-current  soft  and  argentine 
From  its  fierce  mate  in  the  majestic  mass 
Leavened  as  the  sea  whose  fire  was  mixt  with  glass 
In  John's  transcendent  vision,  — launch  once  more 
That  lustre  ?     Dante,  pacer  of  the  shore 
Where  glutted  hell  disgorgeth  filthiest  gloom, 
Unbitten  by  its  whirring  sulphur-spume  — 
Or  whence  the  grieved  and  obscure  waters  slope 
Into  a  darkness  quieted  by  ho])e ; 
Plucker  of  amaranths  grown  beneath  God's  eye 
In  gracious  twilights  where  his  chosen  lie, 
I  would  do  this  !     If  I  should  falter  now ! 
In  Mantua  territory  half  is  slough. 


202  SORDELLO 

Half  pine-tree  forest ;  maples,  scarlet-oaks 

Breed  o'er  the  river-beds  ;  even  Mincio  chokes 

With  sand  the  summer  through  :  but  't  is  morass 

In  winter  up  to  Mantua  walls.     There  was, 

Some  thirty  years  before  this  evening's  coil, 

One  spot  reclaimed  from  the  surrounding  spoil, 

Goito  ;  just  a  castle  built  amid 

A  few  low  mountains  ;  firs  and  larches  hid 

Their  main  defiles,  and  rings  of  vineyard  bound 

The  rest.     Some  captured  creature  in  a  pound, 

Whose  artless  wonder  quite  precludes  distress. 

Secure  beside  in  its  own  loveliness, 

So  peered  with  airy  head,  below,  above. 

The  castle  at  its  toils,  the  laj^wings  love 

To  glean  among  at  grape-time.     Pass  witliin. 

A  maze  of  corridors  contrived  for  sin. 

Dusk  winding-stairs,  dim  galleries  got  past. 

You  gain  the  inmost  chambers,  gain  at  last 

A  maple-panelled  room  :  that  haze  which  seems 

Floating  about  the  panel,  if  there  gleams 

A  sunbeam  over  it,  will  turn  to  gold 

And  in  light-graven  chara(  ters  unfold 

The  Arab's  wisdom  everywhere  ;  what  shade 

Marred  them  a  moment,  those  slim  pillars  made, 

Cut  like  a  company  of  palms  to  prop 

The  roof,  each  kissing  top  entwined  with  top, 

Leaning  together  ;  in  the  carver's  mind 

Some  knot  of  bacchanals,  flushed  cheek  combined 

With  straining  forehead,  shoulders  purpled,  hair 

Diffused  between,  who  in  a  goat-skin  bear 

A  vintage  ;  graceful  sister-pahns  !      But  quick 

To  the  main  wonder,  now.     A  vault,  see  ;  thick 

Black  shade  about  the  ceiling,  though  fine  slits 

Across  the  buttress  suffer  light  by  fits 

Upon  a  marvel  in  the  midst.     Nay,  stoop  — 

A  dullish  gray-streaked  cumbrous  font,  a  group 

Round  it,  —  each  side  of  it,  w^here'er  one  sees,  — 

Upholds  it ;  shrinking  Caryatides 

Of  just-tinged  marble  like  Eve's  lilied  flesh 

Beneath  her  maker's  finger  when  the  fresh 

First  pulse  of  life  shot  brightening  the  snow. 

The  font's  edge  burthens  every  shoulder,  so 

They  nuise  upon  the  ground,  eyelids  half  closed  ; 

Some,  with  meek  arms  behind  their  backs  disposed. 

Some,  crossed  above  their  bosoms,  some,  to  veil 

Their  eyes,  some,  propping  chin  and  cheek  so  pale, 


HIS  BOYHOOD  IN  THE  DOMAIN  OF  ECELIN     203 

Some,  hanging  slack  an  utter  helpless  length 

Dead  as  a  buried  vestal  whose  whole  strenoth 

Goes  when  the  grate  above  shuts  heavily. 

So  dwell  these  noiseless  girls,  patient  to  see, 

Like  })riestesses  because  of  sin  impure 

Penanced  forever,  who  resigned  endure, 

Having  that  once  drunk  sweetness  to  the  dregs. 

And  every  eve,  Sordello's  visit  begs 

Pardon  for  them  :  constant  as  eve  he  came 

To  sit  beside  each  in  her  turn,  the  same 

As  one  of  them,  a  certain  space  :   and  awe 

Made  a  great  indistinctness  till  he  saw 

Sunset  slant  cheerful  throuoh  the  buttress-chinks. 

Gold  seven  times  globed  ;  surely  our  maiden  shrinks 

And  a  smile  stirs  her  as  if  one  faint  grain 

Her  load  were  lightened,  one  shade  less  the  stain 

Obscured  her  forehead,  yet  one  more  bead  slipt 

From  off  the  rosary  whereby  the  crypt 

Keeps  count  of  the  contritions  of  its  charge  ? 

Then  with  a  stejj  more  light,  a  heart  more  large. 

He  may  depart,  leave  her  and  every  one 

To  linger  out  the  penance  in  mute  stone. 

Ah,  but  Sordello  ?     'T  is  the  tale  I  mean 

To  tell  you. 

In  this  castle  may  be  seen, 
On  the  hill-tops,  or  underneath  the  vines. 
Or  eastward  by  the  mound  of  firs  and  pines 
That  shuts  out  Mantua,  still  in  loneliness, 
A  slender  boy  in  a  loose  page's  dress, 
Sordello  :  do  but  look  on  him  awhile 
Watching  ('tis  autumn)  with  an  earnest  smile 
The  noisy  flock  of  thievish  birds  at  work 
Am:^)ng  the  yellowing  vineyards  ;   see  him  lurk 
('Tis  winter  with  its  sullenest  of  storms) 
Beside  that  arras-length  of  broidered  forms. 
On  tiptoe,  lifting  in  both  hands  a  light 
Which  makes  yon  warrior's  visage  flutter  bright 

—  Ecelo,  dismal  father  of  the  brood. 
And  P^celin,  close  to  the  girl  he  wooed, 
Auria,  and  their  Child,  with  all  his  wives 
From  Agnes  to  the  Tuscan  that  survives. 
Lady  of  the  castle,  Adelaide.     His  face 

—  Look,  now  he  turns  away  I     Yourselves  shall  trace 
(The  delicate  nostril  swerving  wide  and  fine, 

A  sharp  and  restless  \\\),  so  well  combine 
^^'ith  that  calm  brow)  a  soul  fit  to  receive 


204  SORDELLO 

Delight  at  every  sense ;  you  can  believe 

Sordello  foremost  in  the  regal  class 

Nature  has  broadly  severed  from  her  mass 

Of  men,  and  framed  for  pleasure,  as  she  frames 

Some  happy  lands,  that  have  luxurious  names, 

For  loose  fertility  ;  a  footfall  there 

Suffices  to  upturn  to  the  warm  air 

Half-germinating  spices  ;  mere  decay 

Produces  richer  life  ;  and  day  by  day 

New  pollen  on  the  lily-petal  grows. 

And  still  more  labyrinthine  buds  the  rose. 

You  recoo-nize  at  once  the  finer  dress 

Of  flesh  that  amply  lets  in  loveliness 

At  eye  and  ear,  while  round  the  rest  is  furled 

(As  though  she  would  not  trust  them  with  her  world) 

A  veil  that  shows  a  sky  not  near  so  blue, 

And  lets  but  half  the  sun  look  fervid  through. 

How  can  such  love  ?  —  like  souls  on  each  full-fraught 

Discovery  brooding,  blind  at  first  to  aught 

Beyond  its  beauty,  till  exceeding  love 

Becomes  an  aching  weight ;  and,  to  remove 

A  curse  that  haunts  such  natures  —  to  preclude 

Their  finding  out  themselves  can  work  no  good 

To  what  they  love  nor  make  it  very  blest 

By  their  endeavor,  —  they  are  fain  invest 

The  lifeless  thing  with  life  from  their  own  soul, 

Availing  it  to  purpose,  to  control, 

To  dwell  distinct  and  have  peculiar  joy 

And  separate  interests  that  may  employ 

That  beauty  fitly,  for  its  proper  sake. 

Nor  rest  they  here  ;  fresh  births  of  beauty  wake 

Fresh  homage,  every  grade  of  love  is  past. 

With  every  mode  of  loveliness  :  then  cast 

Inferior  i<lols  off  their  borrowed  crown 

Before  a  coming  glory.      Up  and  down 

Runs  arrowy  fire,  while  earthly  forms  combine 

To  throb  the  secret  forth  ;  a  touch  divine  — 

And  the  scaled  eyeball  owns  the  mystic  rod  ; 

Visibly  through  his  garden  walketh  God. 

So  fare  they.     Now  revert.     One  character 
Denotes  them  through  the  progress  and  the  stir,  — 
A  need  to  blend  with  each  external  charm, 
Bury  themselves,  the  whole  heart  wide  and  warm,  — 
In  something  not  themselves  ;   they  would   belong 
To  what  they  worship  —  stronger  and  more  strong 
Thus  prodigally  fed  —  which  gathers  shape 


THE  PROGRESS   OF  A  POETS  SOUL  205 

And  feature,  soon  imprisons  past  escape 

The  votary  framed  to  love  and  to  submit 

Nor  ask,  as  passionate  he  kneels  to  it. 

Whence  grew  the  idol's  empery.     So  runs 

A  legend  ;  light  had  birth  ere  moons  and  suns, 

Flowing  through  space  a  river  and  alone. 

Till  chaos  burst  and  blank  the  spheres  were  strown 

Hither  and  thither,  foundering  and  blind : 

When  into  each  of  them  rushed  light  —  to  find 

Itself  no  place,  foiled  of  its  radiant  chance. 

Let  such  forego  their  just  inheritance ! 

For  there  's  a  class  that  eagerly  looks,  too, 

On  beauty,  but,  unlike  the  gentler  crew. 

Proclaims  each  new  revealment  born  a  twin 

With  a  distinctest  consciousness  within 

Referring  still  the  quality,  now  first 

Revealed,  to  their  own  soul  —  its  instinct  nursed 

In  silence,  now  remembered  better,  shown 

More  thoroughly,  but  not  the  less  their  own ; 

A  dream  come  true  ;  the  special  exercise 

Of  any  special  function  that  implies 

The  being  fair,  or  good,  or  wise,  or  strong, 

Dormant  within  their  nature  all  along  — 

Whose  fault  ?     So  homage,  other  souls  direct 

Without,  turns  inward.     "  How  should  this  deject 

Thee,  soul  ?  "  they  murmur  ;  "  wherefore  strength  be  quelled 

Because,  its  trivial  accidents  withheld, 

Organs  are  missed  that  clog  the  world,  inert, 

AVanting  a  will,  to  quicken  and  exert. 

Like  thine  —  existence  cannot  satiate, 

Cannot  surprise  ?     Laugh  thou  at  envious  fate, 

Who.  from  earth's  simplest  combination  stampt 

With  individuality  —  uncrampt 

By  living  its  faint  elemental  life, 

Dost  soar  to  heaven's  complexest  essence,  rife 

With  grandeurs,  unafPronted  to  the  last, 

Equal  to  being  all !  " 

In  truth  ?     Thou  hast 
Life,  then  —  wilt  challenge  life  for  us  :  our  race 
Is  vindicated  so,  obtains  its  place 
In  thy  ascent,  the  first  of  us  ;  whom  we 
May  follow,  to  the  meanest,  finally, 
With  our  more  bounded  wills  ^ 

Ah,  but  to  find 
A  certain  mood  enervate  such  a  mind, 
Counsel  it  slumber  in  the  solitude 


206  SORDELLO 

Thus  reached,  nor,  stooping,  task  for  mankind's  good 
Its  nature  just  as  life  and  time  accord 
"  —  Too  narrow  an  arena  to  reward 
Emprise  —  the  world's  occasion  worthless  since 
Not  absolutely  fitted  to  evince 
Its  mastery  !  "     Or  if  yet  worse  befall, 
And  a  desire  possess  it  to  put  all 
That  nature  forth,  forcing  our  straitened  sphere 
Contain  it,  —  to  display  completely  here 
The  mastery  another  life  should  learn, 
Thrustinf(  in  time  eternity's  concern,  — 
So  that  Sordello  .  .  . 

Fool,  who  spied  the  mark 
Of  leprosy  upon  him,  violet-dark 
Already  as  he  loiters  ?     Born  just  now. 
With  the  new  century,  beside  the  glow 
And  efflorescence  out  of  barbarism  ; 
Witness  a  Greek  or  two  from  the  abysm 
That  stray  through  Florence-town  with  studious  air, 
Calming  the  chisel  of  that  Pisan  pair  : 
If  Nicolo  should  carve  a  Christus  yet ! 
While  at  Siena  is  Guidone  set, 
Forehead  on  hand  ;  a  painful  birth  nuist  be 
Matured  ere  Saint  Eufemia's  sacristy 
Or  transept  gather  fruits  of  one  great  gaze 
At  the  moon  :  look  you  !     The  same  orange  haze,  — 
The  same  blue  stripe  round  that  —  and,  in  the  midst, 
Thy  spectral  whiteness.  Mother-maid,  who  didst 
Pursue  the  dizzy  painter  ! 

Woe,  then,  worth 
Any  officious  babble  letting  forth 
The  leprosy  confirmed  and  ruinous 
To  spirit  lodged  in  a  contracted  house  ! 
Go  back  to  the  beginning,  rather  ;  blend 
It  gently  with  Sordello's  life  ;  the  end 
Is  piteous,  you  may  see,  but  much  between 
Pleasant  enough.     Meantime,  some  pyx  to  screen 
The  full-grown  pest,  some  lid  to  shut  uj)on 
The  goblin  !      So  tliey  found  at  Babylon, 
(Colleagues,  mad  Lucius  and  sage  Antonine) 
Sacking  the  city,  by  Apollo's  shrine, 
In  rummaging  among  the  rarities, 
A  certain  coffer  ;  he  who  made  the  prize 
Opened  it  greedily ;  and  out  there  curled 
Just  such  another  plague,  for  half  the  world 
Was  stung.      Crawl  in  then,  hag,  and  couch  asquat;, 


THE  DELIGHTS  OF  HIS  CHILDISH  FANCY      207 

Keeping  that  blotchy  bosom  thick  in  spot 
Until  your  time  is  lipe  !     The  coffer-lid 
Is  fastened,  and  the  coffer  safely  hid 
Under  the  Loxian's  choicest  gifts  of  gold. 

Who  will  may  hear  Bordello's  story  told, 
And  how  he  never  could  remember  when 
He  dwelt  not  at  Goito.     Calmly,  then, 
About  this  secret  lodge  of  Adelaide's 
Glided  his  youth  away  ;  beyond  the  glades 
On  the  fir-forest  border,  and  the  rim 
Of  the  low  range  of  mountain,  was  for  him 
No  other  world :  but  this  appeared  his  own 
To  wander  through  at  pleasure  and  alone. 
The  castle  too  seemed  empty  ;  far  and  wide 
Might  he  disport ;   only  the  northern  side 
Lay  under  a  mysterious  interdict  — 
Slight,  just  enough  remembered  to  restrict 
His  roaming  to  the  corridors,  the  vault 
Where  those  font-bearers  expiate  their  fault, 
The  maple-chamber,  and  the  little  nooks 
And  nests,  and  breezy  parajDet  that  looks 
Over  the  woods  to  Mantua  :   there  he  strolled. 
Some  foreign  women-servants,  very  old. 
Tended  and  crept  about  him  —  all  his  clue 
To  the  world's  business  and  embroiled  ado 
Distant  a  dozen  hill-tops  at  the  most. 

And  first  a  simple  sense  of  life  engrossed 
Sordello  in  his  drowsy  Paradise  ; 
The  day's  adventures  for  the  day  suffice  — 
Its  constant  tribute  of  perceptions  strange. 
With  sleep  and  stir  in  healthy  interchange, 
Suffice,  and  leave  him  for  the  next  at  ease 
Like  the  great  palmer-worin  that  strips  the  trees, 
Eats  the  life  out  of  every  luscious  plant. 
And,  when  September  finds  them  sere  or  scant, 
Puts  forth  two  wondrous  winglets,  alters  quite, 
And  hies  him  after  unforeseen  delight. 
So  fed  Sordello,  not  a  shard  disheathed  ; 
As  ever,  round  each  new  discovery,  wreathed 
Luxuriantly  the  fancies  infantine 
His  admiration,  bent  on  making  fine 
Its  novel  friend  at  any  risk,  would  fling 
In  gay  profusion  forth  :  a  ficklest  king. 
Confessed  those  minions  I  —  eager  to  dispense 
So  much  from  his  own  stock  of  thought  and  sense 
As  might  enable  each  to  stand  alone 


208  SORDELLO 

And  serve  him  for  a  fellow  ;  with  his  own, 

Joining  the  qualities  that  just  before 

Had  graced  some  older  favorite.     Thus  they  wore 

A  fluctuating  halo,  yesterday 

Set  flicker  and  to-morrow  filched  away,  — 

Those  upland  objects  each  of  separate  name, 

Each  with  an  aspect  never  twice  the  same, 

Waxinof  and  waninq;  as  the  new-born  host 

Of  fancies,  like  a  single  night's  hoar-frost. 

Gave  to  familiar  things  a  face  grotesque  ; 

Only,  preserving  through  the  mad  burlesque 

A  grave  regard.     Conceive  !  the  orpine  patch 

Blossoming  earliest  on  the  log-house-thatch 

The  day  those  archers  wound  along  the  vines  — 

Related  to  the  Chief  that  left  their  lines 

To  climb  with  clinking  step  the  northern  stair 

Up  to  the  solitary  chambers  where 

Bordello  never  came.     Thus  thrall  reached  thrall ; 

He  o'er-festooning  every  interval, 

As  the  adventurous  spider,  making  light 

Of  distance,  shoots  her  threads  from  depth  to  height, 

From  barbican  to  battlement :  so  flung 

Fantasies  forth  and  in  their  centre  swung 

Our  architect,  —  the  breezy  morning  fresh 

Above,  and  merry,  —  all  his  waving  mesh 

Laughing  with  lucid  dew-drops  rainbow-edged. 

This  wctfld  of  ours  by  tacit  pact  is  pledged 
To  laying  such  a  spangled  fabric  low, 
Wliether  by  gradual  brush  or  gallant  blow. 
But  its  abundant  will  was  balked  here  :  doubt 
Rose  tardily  in  one  so  fenced  about 
From  most  tbat  nurtures  judgment,  care  and  pain : 
Judgment,  that  dull  expedient  we  are  fain, 
Less  favored,  to  adopt  betimes  and  force 
vStead  us,  diverted  from  our  natural  course 
Of  joys  —  contrive  some  yet  amid  the  dearth. 
Vary  and  render  them,  it  may  be,  worth 
Most  we  forego.     Suppose  Sordello  hence 
Selfish  enougli.  without  a  moral  sense 
However  feeble  ;  what  informed  the  boy 
Others  desired  a  ])ortion  in  his  joy  ? 
Or  say  a  ruthful  chance  broke  woof  and  warp  — 
A  heron's  nest  beat  down  by  March  winds  sharp, 
A  fawn  breathless  beneath  the  preci]>ice, 
A  bird  with  unsoiled  breast  and  unfilmed  eyes 
Warm  in  the  brake  —  could  these  undo  the  trance 


NEW-BORN  JUDGMENT  RECKS  SYMPATHY     209 

Lapping  Sordello  ?      Not'  a  circumstance 

That  makes  for  you,  friend  Naddo  !     Eat  fern-seed 

And  ])eer  Leside  us  and  report  indeed 

If  (your  word)  ''genius"  dawned  with  throes  and  stings 

And  the  whole  fiery  catalogue,  wliile  springs, 

Sunnners  and  winters  quietly  came  and  went. 

Time  put  at  length  that  period  to  content, 
By  right  the  world  should  have  imi)osed  :  bereft 
Of  its  good  offices,  Sordello,  left 
To  study  his  companions,  managed  rip 
Their  fringe  off,  learn  the  true  relationship, 
Core  with  its  crust,  their  nature  with  his  own : 
Amid  his  wild-wood  sights  he  lived  alone. 
As  if  the  poppy  felt  with  him  !     Though  he 
Partook  the  poppy's  red  effrontery 
Till  Autumn  spoiled  their  fleering  quite  with  rain. 
And,  turbanless,  a  coarse  brown  rattling  crane 
Lay  bare.     That 's  gone  :  yet  why  renounce,  for  that, 
His  disenchanted  tributaries  —  flat 
Perhaps,  but  scarce  so  utterly  forlorn. 
Their  simjjle  presence  might  not  well  be  borne 
Whose  parley  was  a  transport  once  :  recall 
The  poppy's  gifts,  it  flaunts  you,  after  all, 
A  poppy  :  —  why  distrust  the  evidence 
Of  each  soon  satisfied  and  healthy  sense  ? 
The  new-born  judgment  answered,  "  little  boots 
Beholding  other  creatures'  attributes 
And  having  none  I  "  or,  say  that  it  sufficed, 
"  Yet,  could  one  but  possess,  oneself,"  (enticed 
Judgment)  "  some  special  office  !  "     Nought  beside 
Serves  you  ?     '•  Well  then,  be  somehow  justified 
For  this  ignoble  wish  to  circumscribe 
And  concentrate,  rather  than  swell,  the  tribe 
Of  actual  pleasures  :  what,  now,  from  without 
Effects  it  ?  —  proves,  despite  a  lurking  doubt, 
Mere  sympathy  sufficient,  trouble  spared  ? 
That,  tasting  joys  by  proxy  thus,  you  fared 
The  better  for  them  ?  "     Thus  much  craved  his  soul. 
Alas,  from  the  beginning  love  is  whole 
And  true  ;  if  sure  of  nought  beside,  most  sure 
Of  its  own  truth  at  least ;  nor  may  endure 
A  crowd  to  see  its  face,  that  cannot  know 
How  hot  the  pulses  throb  its  heart  l)elow. 
While  its  own  helplessness  and  utter  want 
Of  means  to  worthily  be  ministrant 
To  what  it  worships,  do  but  fan  the  more 


210  SORDELLO 

Its  flame,  exalt  the  idol  far  before 
Itself  as  it  would  have  it  ever  be. 
Souls  like  Sordello,  on  the  contrary, 
Coerced  and  put  to  shame,  retaining  will, 
Care  little,  take  mysterious  comfort  still. 
But  look  forth  tremblingly  to  ascertain 
If  others  judge  their  claims  not  urged  in  vain, 
And  say  for  them  their  stifled  thoughts  aloud. 
So,  they  must  ever  live  before  a  crowd : 
—  "  Vanity,"  Naddo  tells  you. 

Whence  contrive 
A  crowd,  now  ?     From  these  women  just  alive, 
That  archer-troop  ?     Forth  glided  —  not  alone 
Each  painted  warrior,  every  girl  of  stone, 
Nor  Adelaide  (bent  double  o'er  a  scroll, 
One  maiden  at  her  knees,  that  eve,  his  soul 
Shook  as  he  stumbled  through  the  arras'd  glooms 
On  them,  for,  'mid  quaint  robes  and  weird  perfumes, 
Started  the  meagre  Tuscan  up,  —  her  eyes. 
The  maiden's,  also,  bluer  with  surprise) 
— .  But  the  entire  out-world  :  whatever,  scraps 
And  snatches,  song  and  story,  dreams  perhaps, 
Conceited  the  world's  ofiices,  and  he 
Had  hitherto  transferred  to  flower  or  tree, 
Not  counted  a  befitting  heritage 
Each,  of  its  own  right,  singly  to  engage 
Some  man,  no  other,  —  such  now  dared  to  stand 
Alone.     Strength,  wisdom,  grace  on  every  hand 
Soon  disengaged  themselves,  and  he  discerned 
A  sort  of  human  life  :  at  least,  was  turned 
A  stream  of  lifelike  figures  through  his  brain. 
Lord,  liegeman,  valvassor  and  suzerain. 
Ere  he  could  choose,  surrounded  him ;  a  stuff 
To  work  his  pleasure  on  ;  there,  sure  enough  : 
But  as  for  gazing,  what  shall  fix  that  gaze  ? 
Are  tliey  to  simply  testify  the  ways 
He  who  convoked  them  sends  his  soul  along 
With  the  cloud's  thunder  or  a  dove's  brood-song  ? 
—  While  they  live  each  his  life,  boast  each  his  own 
Peculiar  dower  of  bliss,  stand  each  alone 
In  some  one  point  where  something  dearest  loved 
Is  easiest  gained  —  far  worthier  to  be  proved 
Than  aught  he  envies  in  the  forest-wights  ! 
No  simple  and  self-evident  delights, 
But  mixed  desires  of  unimaglned  range, 
Contrasts  or  combinations,  new  and  strange, 


HE   CREATES  HIS   OWN  SYMPATHIZERS      211 

Irksome  perhaps,  yet  plainly  recognized 

By  this,  the  sudden  company  —  loves  prized 

By  those  who  are  to  prize  his  own  amount 

Of  loves.     Once  care  because  such  make  account, 

Allow  a  foreign  recognition  stamp 

The  current  value,  and  his  crowd  shall  vamp 

Him  counterfeits  enough ;  and  so  their  print 

Be  on  the  piece,  'tis  gold,  attests  the  mint. 

And  ''  good,"  pronounce  they  whom  his  new  appeal 

Is  made  to  :   if  tlieir  casual  print  conceal  — 

This  arbitrary  good  of  theirs  o'ergioss 

What  he  have  lived  without,  nor  felt  the  loss  — 

Qualities  strange,  ungainly,  wearisome, 

— What  matter  ?     So  must  speech  expand  the  dumb 

Part-sigh,  part-smile  with  which  Sordello,  late 

No  foolish  woodland-sights  could  satiate. 

Betakes  himself  to  study  hungrily 

Just  what  the  puppets  his  crude  fantasy 

Supposes  notablest,  popes,  kings,  priests,  knights, 

May  please  to  promulgate  for  appetites  ; 

Accepting  all  their  artificial  joys 

Not  as  he  views  them,  but  as  he  employs 

Each  shape  to  estimate  the  other's  stock 

Of  attributes,  that  on  a  marshalled  flock 

Of  authorized  enjoyments  he  may  spend 

Himself,  be  men,  now,  as  he  used  to  blend 

With  tree  and  flower  —  nay  more  entu'ely,  else 

'T  were  mockery  :  for  instance,  "  how  excels 

My  life  that  chieftain's  ?  "  (who  apprised  the  youth 

Ecelin.  here,  becomes  this  month,  in  truth. 

Imperial  Vicar  ?)      "  Turns  he  in  his  tent 

Remissly  ?     Be  it  so  —  my  head  is  bent 

Deliciously  amid  my  girls  to  sleep. 

What  if  he  stalks  the  Trentine-pass  ?     Yon  steep 

I  climbed  an  hour  ago  with  little  toil : 

We  are  alike  there.      But  can  I,  too,  foil 

The  Guelf's  paid  stabber,  carelessly  afford 

Saint  Mark's  a  spectacle,  the  sleight  o'  the  sword 

Baffling  the  treason  in  a  moment  ?  "     Here 

No  rescue !     Poppy  he  is  none,  but  peer 

To  Ecelin,  assuredly  :  his  hand. 

Fashioned  no  otherwise,  should  wield  a  brand 

Will  P^celin's  :  uccess  —  try,  now  !     He  soon 

Was  satisfied,  returned  as  to  the  moon 

From  earth  ;  left  each  abortive  boy's-attempt 

For  feats,  from  failure  happily  exempt. 


212  SORDELLO 

In  fancy  at  his  beck.     "  One  day  I  will 

Aecomjilish  it !     Are  they  not  older  still 

—  Not  grown  up  men  and  women  ?     'T  is  beside 

Only  a  dream  ;  and  though  I  must  abide 

With  dreams  now,  I  may  find  a  thorough  vent 

For  all  myself,  acquire  an  instrument 

For  acting  what  these  peojDle  act ;  my  soul 

Hunting  a  body  out  may  gain  its  whole 

Desire  some  day !  "     How  else  express  chagrin 

And  resignation,  show  the  hope  steal  in 

With  which  he  let  sink  from  an  aching  wrist 

The  rough-hewn  ash-bow  ?     Straight,  a  gold  shaft  hissed 

Into  the  Syrian  air,  struck  Malek  down 

Superbly  !     "  Crosses  to  the  breach  !     God's  Town 

Is  gained  him  back !  "     Why  bend  rough  ash-bows  more  ? 

Thus  lives  he :  if  not  careless  as  before. 
Comforted :  for  one  may  anticipate, 
Rehearse  the  future,  be  prepared  when  fate 
Shall  have  prepared  in  turn  real  men  whose  names 
Startle,  real  places  of  enormous  fames, 
Este  abroad  and  Ecelin  at  home 
To  worship  him,  —  Mantua,  Yerona,  Rome 
To  witness  it.     Who  grudges  time  so  spent  ? 
Rather  test  qualities  to  heart's  content  — 
Summon  them,  thrice  selected,  near  and  far  — 
Compress  the  starriest  into  one  star. 
And  grasp  the  whole  at  once ! 

The  pageant  thinned 
Accordingly  ;  from  rank  to  rank,  like  wind 
His  spirit  passed  to  winnow  and  divide  ; 
Back  fell  the  simpler  phantasms  ;  every  side 
The  strong  clave  to  the  wise  ;  with  either  classed 
The  beauteous  ;  so,  till  two  or  three  amassed 
Mankind's  beseemingnesses,  and  reduced 
Themselves  eventually,  graces  loosed. 
And  lavished  strengths,  to  heighten  up  One  Shape 
Whose  i)otency  no  creature  should  escape. 
Can  it  be  Friedrich  of  the  bowmen's  talk  ? 
Surely  tluit  gra])e-juice,  bubbling  at  the  stalk,  ' 

Is  some  giay  scoi-ching  Saracenic  wine 
The  Kaiser  quaffs  with  the  Miramoline  — 
Those  swarthy  hazel-clusters,  seamed  and  chapped. 
Or  filberts  russet-sheathed  and  velvet-capped. 
Are  dates  plucked  from  the  bough  John  Brienne  sent, 
To  keep  in  mind  his  sluGfgish  armament 
Of  Canaan :  —  Friedrich's,  all  the  pomp  and  fierce 


HE  MEANS  TO  BE  PERFECT— SAY,  APOLLO    213 

Demeanor !     But  harsh  sounds  and  sights  transpierce 

So  rarely  the  serene  cloud  where  he  dwells, 

Whose  looks  enjoin,  whose  lightest  words  are  spells 

On  the  obdurate  I     That  right  arm  indeed 

Has  thunder  for  its  slave  ;  but  where  's  the  need 

Of  thunder  if  the  stricken  multitude 

Hearkens,  arrested  in  its  angriest  mood, 

While  songs  go  up  exulting,  then  dispread, 

Dispart,  disperse,  lingering  overhead 

Like  an  escape  of  angels  ?      'T  is  the  tune, 

Nor  much  unlike  the  words  the  women  croon 

Smilingly,  colorless  and  faint-designed 

Each,  as  a  worn-out  queen's  face  some  remind 

Of  her  extreme  youth's  love-tales.     "  Eglamor 

Made  that  I  "     Half  minstrel  and  half  emperor, 

What  but  ill  objects  vexed  him  ?     Such  he  slew. 

The  kinder  sort  were  easy  to  subdue 

By  those  ambrosial  glances,  dulcet  tones  ; 

And  these  a  gracious  hand  advanced  to  thrones 

Beneath  liim.     AYherefore  t\\dst  and  torture  this, 

Striving  to  name  afresh  the  antique  bliss, 

Instead  of  saying,  neither  less  nor  more, 

He  had  discovered,  as  our  world  before, 

Apollo  ?     That  shall  be  the  name  ;  nor  bid 

Me  rag  by  rag  expose  how  patchwork  hid 

The  youth  —  what  thefts  of  every  clime  and  day 

Contributed  to  purfle  the  array 

He  climbed  with  (June  at  deep)  some  close  ravine 

'Mid  clatter  of  its  million  pebbles  sheen. 

Over  which,  singing  soft,  the  runnel  slipped 

Elate  with  rains :  into  whose  streamlet  dipped 

He  foot,  yet  trod,  you  thought,  with  unwet  sock  — 

Though  really  on  the  stubs  of  living  rock 

Ages  ago  it  crenelled  ;  vines  for  roof, 

Lindens  for  wall ;  before  him,  aye  aloof. 

Flittered  in  the  cool  some  azure  damsel-fly, 

Born  of  the  simmering  quiet,  there  to  die. 

Emerging  whence,  Apollo  still,  he  spied 

INIighty  descents  of  forest ;  multiplied 

Tuft  on  tuft,  here,  the  frolic  myrtle-trees. 

There  gendered  the  grave  maple  stocks  at  ease, 

And,  proud  of  its  observer,  straight  the  wood 

Tried  old  surprises  on  him ;  black  it  stood 

A  sudden  barrier  ('t  was  a  cloud  passed  o'er) 

So  dead  and  dense,  the  tiniest  brute  no  more 

Must  pass ;  yet  presently  (the  cloud  dispatched) 


214  SORDELLO 

Each  clump,  behold,  was  glistering  detached 
A  shrub,  oak -boles  shrunk  into  ilex-stems  ! 
Yet  could  not  he  denounce  the  stratagems 
He  saw  thro',  till,  hours  thence,  aloft  would  hang 
"White  summer-lightnings  ;  as  it  sank  and  sprang 
To  measure,  that  whole  palpitating  breast 
Of  heaven,  't  was  Apollo,  nature  prest 
At  eve  to  worship. 

Time  stole  :  by  degrees 
The  Pythons  perish  off ;  his  votaries 
Sink  to  respectful  distance  ;  songs  redeem 
Their  pains,  but  briefer  ;  their  dismissals  seem 
Emphatic  ;  only  girls  are  very  slow 
To  disaj^pear  —  his  Delians  I     Some  that  glow 
O'  the  instant,  more  with  earlier  loves  to  wrench 
Away,  reserves  to  quell,  disdains  to  quench  ; 
Alike  in  one  material  circumstance  — 
All  soon  or  late  adore  Apollo  !     Glance 
The  bevy  through,  divine  Apollo's  choice, 
His  Daphne  !      "  We  secure  Count  Richard's  voice 
In  Este's  counsels,  good  for  Este's  ends 
As  our  Taurello,"  say  his  faded  friends, 
"  By  granting  him  our  Palma  I  "  —  the  sole  child, 
They  mean,  of  Agnes  Este  who  beguiled 
Ecelin,  years  before  this  Adelaide 
AVedded  and  turned  him  wicked  :   "  but  the  maid 
Rejects  his  suit,"  those  sleepy  women  boast. 
She,  scorning  all  beside,  deserves  the  most 
Sordello  :  so,  conspicuous  in  his  world 
Of  dreams  sat  Palma.     How  the  tresses  curled 
Into  a  sumptuous  swell  of  gold  and  wound 
About  her  like  a  glory  !  even  the  ground 
Was  bright  as  with  spilt  sunbeams  ;  breathe  not,  breathe 
Not  I  —  poised,  see,  one  leg  doubled  underneath, 
Its  small  foot  buried  in  the  dimpling  snow, 
Rests,  but  the  other,  listlessly  below. 
O'er  the  couch-side  swings  feeling  for  cool  air, 
The  vein-streaks  swollen  a  richer  violet  where 
The  languid  blood  lies  heavily ;  yet  calm 
On  her  slight  prop,  each  flat  and  outspread  palm. 
As  but  suspended  in  the  act  to  rise 
By  consciousness  of  beauty,  whence  her  eyes 
Turn  with  so  frank  a  triumph,  for  she  meets 
Apollo's  gaze  in  the  pine  glooms. 

Time  fleets : 
That 's  worst !     Because  the  pre-appointed  age 


THE  TIME  IS  RIPE  AND  HE  IS  READY        215 

Approarlies.     Fate  is  tardy  with  the  stage 

And  crowd  she  proiulsed.     Lean  he  grows  and  pale, 

Though  restlessly  at  rest.      Hardly  avail 

Fancies  to  soothe  him.     Time  steals,  yet  alone 

He  tarries  here  !     The  earnest  smile  is  jrone. 

How^  long  this  might  continue  matters  not ; 

—  Forever,  possibly  ;  since  to  the  spot 
None  come  :  our  lingering  Taurello  quits 
Mantua  at  last,  and  light  our  lady  flits 
Back  to  her  place  disburdened  of  a  care. 
Strange  — » to  be  constant  here  if  he  is  there  ! 
Is  it  distrust  ?     Oh,  never  !   for  they  both 
Goad  Ecelin  alike,  Romano's  growth 

Is  daily  manifest,  and  Azzo  's  dumb 

And  Richard  wavers  :  let  but  Friedrich  come, 

Find  matter  for  the  minstrelsy's  report ! 

—  Lured  from  the  Isle  and  its  young  Kaiser's  court 
To  sing  us  a  Messina  morning  up, 

And,  double  rillet  of  a  drinking  cup. 
Sparkle  along  to  ease  the  land  of  drouth. 
Northward  to  Provence  that,  and  thus  far  south 
The  other.     What  a  method  to  apprise 
Neighbors  of  births,  espousals,  obsequies  ! 
AYhich  in  their  very  tongue  the  Troubadour 
Records  ;  and  his  performance  makes  a  tour, 
For  Trouveres  bear  the  miracle  about. 
Explain  its  cunning  to  the  vulgar  rout, 
Until  the  Formidable  House  is  famed 
Over  the  country  —  as  Taurello  aimed, 
Who  introduced,  although  the  rest  adopt. 
The  novelty.     Such  games,  her  absence  stopped, 
Begin  afresh  now  Adelaide,  recluse 
No  longer,  in  the  light  of  day  pursues 
Her  plans  at  Mantua :   whence  an  accident 
Which,  breaking  on  Sordello's  mixed  content, 
Opened,  like  any  flash  that  cures  the  blind, 
The  veritable  business  of  mankind. 


216  SORDELLO 


BOOK    THE    SECOND. 

The  woods  were  long  austere  with  snow :  at  last 
Pink  leaflets  budded  on  the  beech,  and  fast 
Larches,  scattered  through  pine-tree  solitudes, 
Brightened,  "as  in  the  slumbrous  heart o'  the  woods 
Our  buried  year,  a  witch,  grew  young  again 
To  placid  incantations,  and  that  stain 
About  were  from  her  caldron,  green  smoke  blent 
With  those  black  pines  "  —  so  Eglamor  gave  vent 
To  a  chance  fancy.     Whence  a  just  rebuke 
From  his  companion  ;  brother  Naddo  shook 
The  solemnest  of  brows ;  ''  Beware,"  he  said, 
"  Of  setting  up  conceits  in  nature's  stead  I  " 
Forth  wandered  our  Sordello.     Nought  so  sure 
As  that  to-day's  adventure  will  secure 
Palm  a,  the  visioned  lady  —  only  pass 
O'er  yon  damp  mound  and  its  exhausted  grass. 
Under  that  brake  where  sundawn  feeds  the  stalks 
Of  withered  fern  mth  gold,  into  those  walks 
Of  jiine  and  take  her  !     Buoyantly  he  went. 
Again  his  stooping  forehead  was  besprent 
With  dew-drops  from  the  skirting  ferns.      Then  wide 
Opened  the  great  morass,  shot  every  side 
With  flashing  water  through  and  through  ;   a  shine, 
Thick-steaming,  all  alive.     Whose  shaj^e  divine. 
Quivered  i'  the  farthest  rainbow-vapor,  glanced 
Athwart  the  flying  herons  ?     He  advanced, 
But  warily ;  tliough  Mincio  leaped  no  more, 
Each  footfall  burst  up  in  the  marish-floor 
A  diamond  jet  :  and  if  he  stopped  to  pick 
Rose-lichen,  or  molest  the  leeches  quick. 
And  circling  blood-worms,  minnow,  newt  or  loach, 
A  sudden  pond  would  silently  encroach 
This  way  and  that.     On  Palma  passed.     The  verge 
Of  a  new  wood  was  gained.     She  will  emerge 
Flushed,  now,  and  panting,  —  crowds  to  see,  —  will  own 
She  loves  him  —  Boniface  to  hear,  to  groan. 
To  leave  his  suit  I     One  screen  of  ])ine-trees  still 
Opposes  :  but  —  the  startling  s})0('t:icle  — 
Mantua,  this  time  !      Under  the  walls  —  a  crowd 
Indeed,  real  men  and  women,  gay  and  loud 


AT  A  COURT  OF  LOVE  A  MINSTREL  SINGS    217 

Round  a  pavilion.     How  he  stood  ! 

In  truth 
No  prophecy  had  come  to  pass :  his  youth 
In  its  j)rinie  now  —  and  where  was  homage  poured 
Upon  Sordello  ?  —  born  to  be  adored, 
And  suthlenly  discovered  weak,  scarce  made 
To  coi)e  with  any,  cast  into  the  shade 
By  this  and  this.     Yet  something  seemed  to  prick 
And  tingle  in  his  blood  ;  a  sleight  —  a  trick  — 
And  much  would  be  explained.     It  went  for  nought  — 
The  best  of  their  endowments  were  ill  bought 
With  his  identity  :  nay,  the  conceit, 
That  this  day's  roving  led  to  Palma's  feet 
Was  not  so  vain  —  list !     The  word,  "  Palma  !  "     Steal 
Aside,  and  die,  Sordello  ;  this  is  real, 
And  this  —  abjure  ! 

What  next  ?     The  curtains  see 
Dividing  I     She  is  there  ;  and  presently 
He  will  be  there  —  the  proper  You,  at  length  — 
In  your  own  cherished  dress  of  grace  and  strength  : 
Most  like,  the  very  Boniface  ! 

Not  so. 
It  was  a  showy  man  advanced  ;  but  though 
A  glad  cry  welcomed  him,  then  every  sound 
Sank  and  the  crowd  disposed  themselves  around, 
—  "  This  is  not  he,"  Sordello  felt ;  while,  "  Place 
For  the  best  Troubadour  of  Boniface  !  " 
Hollaed  the  Jongleurs,  —  "  Egiamor,  whose  lay 
Concludes  his  patron's  Court  of  Love  to-day  !  " 
Obsequious  Naddo  strung  the  master's  lute 
With  the  new  lute-string,  •'  Elys,"  named  to  suit 
The  song  :  he  stealthily  at  watch,  the  while, 
Biting  his  lip  to  keep  down  a  great  smile 
Of  pride  :   then  up  he  struck.     Sordello 's  brain 
Swam  :  for  he  knew  a  sometime  deed  again  ; 
So,  could  supply  each  foolish  gap  and  chasm 
The  minstrel  left  in  his  enthusiasm. 
Mistaking  its  true  version  —  was  the  tale 
Not  of  Apollo  ?     Only,  what  avail 
Luring  her  down,  that  Elys  an  he  pleased, 
If  the  man  dared  no  further  ?     Has  lie  ceased  ? 
And.  lo,  the  peo])le's  frank  applause  half  done, 
Sordello  was  beside  him,  had  beoun 
(Sj)ite  of  indignant  twitchings  from  his  friend 
The  Trouvere)  the  true  lay  with  the  true  end, 
Taking  the  other's  names  and  time  and  place 


218  SORDELLO 

For  his.     On  flew  the  song,  a  giddy  race, 

After  the  flying  story  ;  word  made  leap 

Out  word,  rhyme  —  rhyme  ;  the  lay  could  barely  keep 

Pace  with  the  action  visibly  rushing  past : 

Both  ended.     Back  fell  Naddo  more  aghast 

Than  some  Egyptian  from  the  harassed  bull 

That  wheeled  abrupt  and,  bellowing,  fronted  full 

His  plague,  who  spied  a  scarab  'neath  the  tongue, 

And  found 't  was  Apis'  flank  his  hasty  prong 

Insulted.     But  the  people —  but  the  cries, 

The  crowding  round,  and  proffering  the  prize  ! 

—  For  he  had  gained  some  prize.     He  seemed  to  shrink 

Into  a  sleepy  cloud,  just  at  whose  brink 

One  siffht  withheld  him.     There  sat  Adelaide, 

Silent ;  but  at  her  knees  the  very  maid 

Of  the  North  Chamber,  her  red  lips  as  rich. 

The  same  pure  fleecy  hair  ;  one  weft  of  which, 

Golden  and  great,  quite  touched  his  cheek  as  o'er 

She  leant,  speaking  some  six  words  and  no  more. 

He  answered  something,  anything ;  and  she 

Unbound  a  scarf  and  laid  it  heavily 

Upon  him,  her  neck's  warmth  and  all.     Again 

Moved  the  arrested  magic  ;  in  his  brain 

Noises  grew,  and  a  light  that  turned  to  glare, 

And  greater  glare,  until  the  intense  flare 

Encfulfed  him,  shut  the  whole  scene  from  his  sense. 

And  when  he  woke  't  was  many  a  furlong  thence, 

At  home  ;  the  sun  shining  his  ruddy  wont ; 

The  customary  birds'-chirp  ;  but  his  front 

Was  crowned  —  was  crowned  !     Her  scented  scarf  around 

His  neck  !      Whose  gorgeous  vesture  heaps  the  ground  ? 

A  prize  ?     He  turned,  and  peeringly  on  him 

Brooded  the  women-faces,  kind  and  dim. 

Ready  to  talk  —  "  The  Jongleurs  in  a  troop 

Had  brought  liim  back,  Naddo  and  Squarcialupe 

And  Tagliafer ;  liow  strange  !  a  childhood  spent 

In  taking,  well  for  him,  so  brave  a  bent ! 

Since  Eglamor,"  they  heard,  "  was  dead  with  spite,      '^ 

And  Palma  chose  him  for  her  minstrel." 

Light 
Sordello  rose  —  to  think,  now  ;  hitherto 
He  had  perceived.     Sure,  a  discovery  grew 
Out  of  it  all !      Best  live  from  first  to  last 
The  transport  o'er  again.     A  week  he  passed, 
Sucking  the  sweet  out  of  each  circumstance. 
From  the  bard's  outbreak  to  the  luscious  trance 


HOW  HAD  HE  BEEN  SUPERIOR  TO  EGLAMOR?     219 

Bounding  his  own  achievement.     Strange  !     A  man 

Recounted  an  adventure,  but  began 

Imperfectly  ;  his  own  task  was  to  fill 

The  frame-work  up,  sing  well  what  he  sung  ill, 

Supply  the  necessary  points,  set  loose 

As  many  incidents  of  little  use 

—  More  imbecile  the  other,  not  to  see 

Their  relative  importance  clear  as  he  ! 

But,  for  a  special  pleasure  in  the  act 

Of  singing  —  had  he  ever  turned,  in  fact, 

From  Elys,  to  sing  Elys  ?  —  from  each  fit 

Of  rapture  to  contrive  a  song  of  it  ? 

True,  this  snatch  or  the  other  seemed  to  wind 

Into  a  treasure,  helped  himself  to  find 

A  beauty  in  himself  ;  for,  see,  he  soared 

By  means  of  that  mere  snatch,  to  many  a  hoard 

Of  fancies  ;  as  some  falling  cone  bears  soft 

The  eye  along  the  fir-tree-spire,  aloft 

To  a  dove's  nest.     Then,  how  divine  the  cause 

Such  a  performance  might  exact  applause 

From  men,  if  they  had  fancies  too  ?     Could  fate 

Decree  they  found  a  beauty  separate 

In  the  poor  snatch  itself  ?  —  "  Take  Elys,  there, 

— '  Her  head  that 's  sharp  and  j^erfect  like  a  pear. 

So  close  and  smooth  are  laid  the  few  fine  locks 

Colored  like  honey  oozed  from  topmost  rocks 

Sun-blanched  the  livelong  summer'  —  if  they  heard 

Just  those  two  rhymes,  assented  at  my  word. 

And  loved  them  as  I  love  them  who  have  run 

These  fingers  through  those  pale  locks,  let  the  sun 

Into  the  white  cool  skin  —  who  first  could  clutch. 

Then  praise  —  I  needs  must  be  a  god  to  such. 

Or  if  some  few,  above  themselves,  and  yet 

Beneath  me,  like  their  Eglamor,  have  set 

An  impress  on  our  gift  ?     So,  men  believe 

And  worship  what  they  know  not,  nor  receive 

Delight  from.     Have  they  fancies  — slow,  perchance, 

Not  at  their  beck,  which  indistinctly  glance 

Until,  by  song,  each  floating  part  be  linked 

To  each,  and  all  grow  palpable,  distinct  ?  " 

He  pondered  this. 

Meanwhile,  sounds  low  and  drear 
Stole  on  him,  and  a  noise  of  footsteps,  near 
And  nearer,  and  the  underwood  was  pushed 
Aside,  the  larches  grazed,  the  dead  leaves  crushed 
At  the  approach  of  men.     The  wind  seemed  laid  ; 


220  SORDELLO 

Only,  the  trees  shrunk  slightly  and  a  shade 

Came  o'er  the  sky  although  't  was  mid-day  yet : 

You  saw  each  half-shut  downcast  floweret 

Flutter  —  "a  Roman  bride,  when  they  'd  dispart 

Her  unbound  tresses  with  the  Sabine  dart, 

Holding  that  famous  rape  in  memory  still, 

Felt  creep  into  her  curls  the  iron  chill. 

And  looked  thus,"  Eglamor  would  say  —  indeed 

'Tis  Eglamor,  no  other,  these  j^recede 

Home  hither  in  the  woods.      "  'T  were  surely  sweet 

Far  from  the  scene  of  one's  forlorn  defeat 

To  sleep !  "  judged  Naddo,  who  in  person  led 

Jongleurs  and  Trouveres.  chanting  at  their  head, 

A  scanty  company ;  for,  sooth  to  say, 

Our  beaten  Troubadour  had  seen  his  day. 

Old  worshippers  were  something  shamed,  old  friends 

Nigh  weary  ;  still  the  death  proposed  amends. 

"  Let  us  but  get  them  safely  through  my  song 

And  home  again  I  "  quoth  Naddo. 

All  along. 
This  man  (they  rest  the  bier  upon  the  sand) 
—  This  calm  corpse  with  the  loose  flowers  in  his  hand, 
Eglamor,  lived  Bordello's  opposite. 
For  him  indeed  was  Naddo's  notion  right. 
And  verse  a  temple-worship  vague  and  vast, 
A  ceremony  that  withdrew  the  last 
Opposing  bolt,  looped  back  the  lingering  veil 
Which  hid  the  holy  place  :  should  one  so  frail 
Stand  there  without  such  effort?  or  repine 
That  much  was  blank,  uncertain  at  the  shrine 
He  knelt  before,  till,  soothed  by  many  a  rite. 
The  power  responded,  and  some  sound  or  sight 
Grew  up,  his  own  forever,  to  be  fixed. 
In  rhyme,  the  beautiful,  forever  !  —  mixed 
With  his  own  life,  unloosed  when  he  should  please, 
Having  it  safe  at  hand,  ready  to  ease 
All  i)ain,  remove  all  trouble  ;   every  time  ^ 

He  loosed  that  fancy  from  its  bonds  of  rhyme, 
(Like  Perseus  when  he  loosed  his  naked  love) 
Faltering  ;  so  distinct  and  far  above 
Himself,  these  fancies  !      He,  no  genius  rare, 
Transfiguring  in  fire  or  wave  or  air 
At  will,  l)ut  a  ])oor  gnome  that,  cloistered  up 
In  some  rock-chamber  with  his  agate  cup, 
His  topaz  rod,  his  seed-pearl,  in  these  few 
And  their  arrangement  finds  enough  to  do 


LOVING  HIS  ART  AND  REWARDED  BY  IT      221 

For  his  best  art.     Then,  how  he  loved  that  art ! 

The  calling  marking  him  a  man  apart 

From  men  —  one  not  to  care,  take  counsel  for 

Cold  hearts,  comfortless  faces  —  (Egiamor 

Was  neediest  of  his  tribe)  —  since  verse,  the  gift, 

Was  his,  and  men,  the  whole  of  them,  must  shift 

Without  it,  e'en  content  themselves  with  wealth 

And  pomp  and  power,  snatching  a  Hfe  by  stealth. 

So,  P^glamor  was  not  without  his  pride  ! 

The  sorriest  bat  which  cowers  through  noontide 

While  other  birds  are  jocund,  has  one  time 

When  moon  and  stars  aie  blinded,  and  the  prime 

Of  earth  is  his  to  claim,  nor  fin  1  a  peer  ; 

And  Egiamor  was  noblest  poet  here  — 

He  knew  that,  'mid  the  April  woods,  he  cast 

Conceits  upon  in  plenty  as  he  passed. 

That  Naddo  might  suppose  him  not  to  think 

Entirely  on  the  coming  triumph  :    wink 

At  the  one  weakness  !      'T  was  a  fervid  child, 

That  song  of  his  ;  no  brother  of  the  guild 

Had  e'er  conceiv^ed  its  like.     The  rest  you  know, 

The  exaltation  and  the  overthrow : 

Our  poet  lost  his  purpose,  lost  his  rank. 

His  life  —  to  that  it  came.     Yet  envy  sank 

Within  him,  as  he  heard  Sordello  out, 

And,  for  the  first  time,  shouted  —  tried  to  shout 

Like  others,  not  from  any  zeal  to  show 

Pleasure  that  way  :  the  common  sort  did  so. 

And  what  was  Egiamor  ?  who,  bending  down 

The  same,  placed  his  beneath  Bordello's  crown. 

Printed  a  kiss  on  his  successor's  hand, 

Left  one  great  tear  on  it,  then  joined  liis  band 

—  In  time  ;   for  some  were  watching  at  the  door  : 

Who  knows  what  envy  may  effect?     "  Give  o'er. 

Nor  charm  his  lips,  nor  craze  him  !  "   (here  one  spied 

And  disengaged  the  withered  crown)  —  "  Beside 

His  crown  ?     How  prom])t  and  clear  those  verees  rung 

To  answer  yours  !   nay,  sing  them  !  "     And  he  sung 

Them  calmly.      Home  he  went ;  friends  used  to  wait 

His  coming,  zealous  to  congratulate ; 

But,  to  a  man,  so  quickly  runs  report, 

Could  do  no  less  than  leave  him,  and  escort 

His  rival.     That  eve,  then,  bred  many  a  thought : 

What  must  his  future  life  be  ?  was  he  brought 

So  low,  who  was  so  lofty  this  Spring  morn  ? 

At  length  he  said,  "  Best  sleep  now  with  my  scorn, 


222  SORDELLO 

And  by  to-morrow  I  devise  some  plain 

Expedient  1  "     So,  he  slept,  nor  woke  again. 

They  found  as  much,  those  friends,  when  they  returned 

O'erflowing  with  the  marvels  they  had  learned 

About  Sordello's  paradise,  his  roves 

Among  the  hills  and  valleys,  plains  and  groves, 

AVherein,  no  doubt,  this  lay  was  roughly  cast, 

Polished  by  slow  degrees,  completed  last 

To  Eglamor's  discomfiture  and  death. 

Such  form  tlie  chanters  now,  and,  out  of  breath, 
They  lay  the  beaten  man  in  his  abode, 
Naddo  reciting  that  same  luckless  ode, 
Doleful  to  hear.     Sordello  could  explore 
By  means  of  it,  however,  one  step  more 
In  joy  ;  and,  mastering  the  round  at  length, 
Learnt  how  to  live  in  weakness  as  in  strength, 
When  from  his  covert  forth  he  stood,  addressed 
Eglamor,  bade  the  tender  ferns  invest. 
Primaeval  pines  o'ercanopy  his  couch, 
And,  most  of  all,  his  fame  —  (shall  I  avouch 
Eglamor  heard  it,  dead  though  he  might  look, 
And  laughed  as  from  his  brow  Sordello  took 
The  crown,  and  laid  on  the  bard's  breast,  and  said 
It  was  a  crown,  now,  fit  for  poet's  head  ?) 

—  Continue.     Nor  the  prayer  quite  fruitless  fell. 
A  plant  they  have,  yielding  a  three-leaved  bell 
Which  whitens  at  the  heart  ere  noon,  and  ails 
Till  evening ;  evening  gives  it  to  her  gales 

To  clear  away  with  such  forgotten  things 
As  are  an  eyesore  to  the  mom  :  this  brings 
Him  to  their  mind,  and  bears  his  very  name. 

So  much  for  Eglamor.     My  own  month  came  ; 
'T  was  a  sunrise  of  blossoming  and  May. 
Beneath  a  flowering  laurel  thicket  lay 
Sordello  ;  each  new  sprinkle  of  white  stars 
That  smell  fainter  of  wine  than  Massic  jars 
Dug  up  at  Baiae,  when  the  south  wind  shecT 
The  ripest,  made  him  happier ;  filleted 
And  robed  the  same,  only  a  lute  beside 
Lay  on  the  turf.     Before  him  far  and  wide 
The  country  stretched  :   Goito  slej)t  behind 

—  The  castle  and  its  covert,  which  confined 
Him  with  his  hopes  and  fears  ;  so  fain  of  old 
To  leave  the  story  of  his  birth  untold. 

At  intervals,  's])ite  the  fantastic  glow 
Of  his  Apollo-life,  a  certain  low 


WHO  SORDELLO  REALLY  WAS  223 

And  wretched  whisper,  winding  through  the  bliss, 

Admonished,  no  such  fortune  could  be  his. 

All  was  (juite  false  and  sure  to  fade  one  day  : 

The  closelier  drew  he  round  him  his  array 

Of  brilliance  to  ex})el  the  truth.     But  when 

A  reason  for  his  difference  from  men 

Surprised  liim  at  the  grave,  he  took  no  rest 

While  aught  of  that  old  hfe,  superbly  dressed 

Down  to  its  meanest  incident,  remained 

A  mystery  :   alas,  they  soon  ex])lained 

Away  Apollo  !  and  the  tale  amounts 

To  this  :  when  at  Vicenza  both  her  counts 

Banished  the  Vivaresi  kith  and  kin, 

Those  Maltraversi  hung  on  Ecelin, 

Reviled  him  as  he  followed  ;  he  for  spite 

Must  lire  their  quarter,  though  that  self -same  night 

Among  the  flames  young  Ecelin  was  born 

Of  Adelaide,  there  too,  and  barely  torn 

From  the  roused  populace  hard  on  the  rear, 

By  a  poor  archer  when  his  chieftain's  fear 

Grew  high ;  into  the  thick  Elcorte  leapt. 

Saved  her,  and  died  ;  no  creature  left  except 

His  child  to  thank.     And  when  the  full  escape 

Was  known  —  how  men  impaled  from  chine  to  nape 

Unlucky  Prata,  all  to  pieces  sjourned 

Bishop  Pistore's  concubines,  and  burned 

Taurello's  entire  household,  flesh  and  fell, 

Missing  the  sweeter  prey  —  such  courage  well 

INIight  claim  reward.     The  orphan,  ever  since, 

Sordello,  had  been  nurtured  by  his  prince 

Within  a  blind  retreat  where  Adelaide  — 

(For,  once  this  notable  discovery  made. 

The  past  at  every  point  was  understood) 

—  Might  harbor  easily  when  times  were  rude, 
When  Azzo  schemed  for  Palma,  to  retrieve 
That  pledge  of  Agnes  Este  —  loth  to  leave 
Mantua  unguarded  with  a  vigilant  eye, 
Taurello  biding  there  ambiguously  — 

He  who  could  have  no  motive  now  to  moil 
For  his  own  fortunes  since  their  utter  sjjoil  — 
As  it  were  worth  while  jet  (went  the  report) 
To  disengage  himself  from  lier.     In  short, 
Apollo  vanished  ;  a  mean  youth,  just  named 
His  lady's  minstrel,  was  to  be  proclaimed 

—  How  shall  I  })hrase  it?  —  Monarch  of  the  World  ! 
For,  on  the  morning  that  array  was  furled 


224  SORDELLO 

Forever,  and  in  place  of  one  a  slave 

To  longings,  wild  indeed,  but  longings  save 

In  dreams  as  wild,  suppressed  —  one  daring  not 

Assume  the  mastery  such  dreams  allot. 

Until  a  magical  equipment,  strength, 

Grace,  wisdom,  decked  him  too,  —  he  chose  at  length, 

Content  with  unproved  wits  and  failing  frame, 

In  virtue  of  his  simple  will,  to  claim 

That  mastery,  no  less  —  to  do  his  best 

With  means  so  limited,  and  let  the  rest 

Go  by,  —  the  seal  was  set :  never  again 

Sordello  could  in  his  own  sight  remain 

One  of  the  many,  one  with  hopes  and  cares 

And  interests  nowise  distinct  from  theirs, 

Only  peculiar  in  a  thriveless  store 

Of  fancies,  which  were  fancies  and  no  more ; 

Never  again  for  him  and  for  the  crow^l 

A  common  law  was  challenged  and  allowed 

If  calmly  reasoned  of,  howe'er  denied 

By  a  mad  impulse  nothing  justified 

Short  of  Apollo's  presence.     The  divorce 

Is  clear  :  why  needs  Sordello  square  his  course 

By  any  known  example  ?     Men  no  more 

Compete  with  him  than  tree  and  flower  before. 

Himself,  inactive,  yet  is  greater  far 

Than  such  as  act,  each  stooping  to  his  star. 

Acquiring  thence  his  function  ;  he  has  gained 

The  same  result  with  meaner  mortals  trained 

To  strength  or  beauty,  moulded  to  express 

Each  the  idea  that  rules  him  ;  since  no  less 

He  comprehends  that  function,  but  can  still 

Embrace  the  others,  take  of  might  his  fill 

With  Richard  as  of  grace  with  Palma,  mix 

Their  qualities,  or  for  a  moment  fix 

On  one  ;  abiding  free  meantime,  uncramped 

By  any  partial  organ,  never  stampM 

Strong,  and  to  strength  turning  all  energies  — 

Wise,  and  restricted  to  becoming  wise  — 

That  is,  he  loves  not,  nor  possesses  One 

Idea  that,  star-like  over,  lures  him  on 

To  its  exclusive  purpose.     "  Fortunate  ! 

This  flesh  of  mine  ne'er  strove  to  enudate 

A  soul  so  various  —  took  no  casual  mould 

Of  the  first  fancy  and,  contracted,  cold, 

Lay  clogged  forever  tlience,  averse  to  change 

As  that :  whereas  it  left  her  free  to  range, 


CAN  DO  NOTHING,   YET  IMAGINE  ALL         225 

'^ 

Remains  itself  a  blank,  cast  into  shade, 

Encumbers  little,  if  it  cannot  aid. 

So,  range,  my  soul !  —  who,  by  self-consciousness, 

The  last  drop  of  all  beauty  dost  express  — 

The  grace  of  seeing  grace,  a  quintessence 

For  thee  :   but  for  the  world,  that  can  dispense 

Wonder  on  men  who,  themselves,  wonder  —  make 

A  shift  to  love  at  second-hand,  and  take 

Those  for  its  idols  who  but  idolize. 

Themselves,  —  world  that  loves  souls  as  strong  or  wise, 

Who,  themselves,  love  strength,  wisdom,  —  it  shall  bow 

Surely  in  unexampled  worship  now. 

Discerning  me  !  "  — 

(Dear  monarch,  I  beseech, 
Notice  how  lamentably  wide  a  breach 
Is  here  :  discovering  this,  discover  too 
What  our  poor  world  has  possibly  to  do 
With  it !     As  pigmy  natures  as  you  jjlease  — 
So  much  the  better  for  you  ;  take  your  ease, 
Look  on,  and  laugh ;  style  yourself  God  alone  ; 
Strangle  some  day  with  a  cross  olive-stone : 
All  that  is  right  enough  :  but  why  want  us 
To  know  that  you  yourself  know  thus  and  thus  ?) 
*'  The  world  shall  bow  to  me  conceiving  all 
Man's  life,  who  see  its  blisses,  great  and  small. 
Afar  —  not  tasting  any  ;  no  machine 
To  exercise  my  utmost  will  is  mine  : 
Be  mine  mere  consciousness  !     Let  them  perceive 
What  I  could  do,  a  mastery  believe. 
Asserted  and  established  to  the  throns: 
By  their  selected  evidence  of  song 
Which  now  shall  prove,  whate'er  they  are,  or  seek 
To  be,  1  am  —  who  take  no  pains  to  speak. 
Change  no  old  standards  of  perfection,  vex 
AVith  no  strange  forms  created  to  ])erplex, 
But  will  perform  their  bidding  and  no  more. 
At  their  own  satiating-point  give  o'er. 
While  each  shall  love  in  me  the  love  that  leads 
His  soul  to  its  perfection.''     Song,  not  deeds, 
(For  we  get  tired)  was  chosen.     Fate  would  brook 
Mankind  no  other  organ  ;  he  would  look 
For  not  another  channel  to  dispense 
His  own  volition,  and  receive  their  sense 
Of  its  existing  ;  but  would  be  content, 
Obstructed  else,  with  merely  verse  for  vent. 
Nor  should,  for  instance,  strength  an  outlet  seek 


226  SORDELLO 

And,  striving,  be  admired  ;  nor  grace  bespeak 

Wonder,  displayed  in  gracious  attitudes ; 

Nor  wisdom,  poured  forth,  change  unseemly  moods : 

But  he  would  give  and  take  on  song's  one  point. 

Like  some  huge  throbbing  stone  that,  poised  a-joint, 

Sounds,  to  affect  on  its  basaltic  bed, 

Must  sue  in  just  one  accent ;  tempests  shed 

Thunder,  and  raves  the  windstorm :  only  let 

That  key  by  any  little  noise  be  set  — 

The  far  benighted  hunter's  halloo  pitch 

On  that,  the  hungry  curlew  chance  to  scritch 

Or  serpent  hiss  it,  rustling  through  the  rift, 

However  loud,  however  low  —  all  lift 

The  groaning  monster,  stricken  to  the  heart. 

Lo  ye,  the  world's  concernment,  for  its  part, 

And  this,  for  his,  will  hardly  interfere  ! 

Its  businesses  in  blood  and  blaze  this  year 

But  while  the  hour  away  —  a  pastime  slight 

Till  he  shall  step  upon  the  jilatform  :  right ! 

And,  now  thus  much  is  settled,  cast  in  rough, 

Proved  feasible,  be  counselled  !  thought  enough,  — 

Slumber,  Sordello  !  any  day  will  serve  : 

Were  it  a  less  digested  plan  !  how  swerve 

To-morrow  ?     Meanwhile  eat  these  sun-dried  grapes. 

And  watch  the  soaring  hawk  there  !     Life  escapes 

Merrily  thus. 

He  thoroughly  read  o'er 
His  truchman  Naddo's  missive  six  times  more. 
Praying  him  visit  Mantua  and  sui)ply 
A  famished  world. 

The  evening  star  was  high 
When  he  reached  Mantua,  but  his  fame  arrived 
Before  him  :  friends  applauded,  foes  connived, 
And  Naddo  looked  an  angel,  and  the  rest 
Angels,  and  all  these  angels  would  be  blest 
Supremely  by  a  song  —  the  thrice-renowned 
Goito  manufacture.     Then  he  found 
(Casting  about  to  satisfy  the  crowd) 
That  haj)py  vehicle,  so  late  allowed, 
A  sore  annoyance  ;  't  was  the  song's  effect 
He  cared  for,  scarce  the  song,  itself  :  reflect ! 
In  the  past  life,  what  might  be  singing's  use  ? 
Just  to  delight  his  Delians,  whose  profuse 
Praise,  not  the  toilsome  process  which  procured 
That  praise,  enticed  Apollo  :  dreams  abjured. 
No  overleaping  means  for  ends  —  take  both 


THE  TOUCH  THAT  COMES  NOT  BY  AN  EFFORT  "I'll 

For  sfi'anted  or  take  neither  !     I  am  loth 
To  say  tlie  rhymes  at  last  were  Eglamor's  ; 
But  Naddo,  chuckling,  bade  competitors 
Go  pine  ;   "  the  master  certes  meant  to  waste 
No  effort,  cautiously  had  probed  the  taste 
He  'd  please  anon  :  true  bard,  in  short,  disturb 
His  title  if  they  could ;  nor  spur  nor  curb, 
Fancy  nor  reason,  wanting  in  him  ;   whence 
The  staple  of  his  verses,  common  sense  : 
He  built  on  man's  broad  nature  —  gift  of  gifts, 
That  power  to  build  !     The  world  contented  sliifts 
With  counterfeits  enough,  a  dreary  sort 
Of  warriors,  statesmen,  ere  it  can  extort 
Its  poet-soul  —  that 's,  after  all,  a  freak 
(The  having  eyes  to  see  and  tongue  to  speak) 
With  our  herd's  stupid  sterling  hapiDiness 
So  plainly  incompatible  that  —  yes  — 
Yes  —  should  a  son  of  his  improve  the  breed 
And  turn  out  poet,  he  were  cursed  indeed  !  " 
"  Well,  there  's  Goito  and  its  woods  anon. 
If  the  worst  hapjDen  ;  best  go  stoutly  on 
Now  !  "  thought  Sordello. 

Ay,  and  goes  on  yet ! 
You  pother  with  your  glossaries  to  get 
A  notion  of  the  Troubadour's  intent 
In  rondel,  tenzon,  virlai  or  sirvent  — 
Much  as  you  study  arras  how  to  twirl 
His  angelot,  plaything  of  page  and  girl 
Once  ;  but  you  surely  reach,  at  last,  —  or,  no  ! 
Never  quite  reach  what  struck  the  people  so, 
As  from  the  welter  of  their  time  he  drew 
Its  elements  successively  to  view. 
Followed  all  actions  backward  on  their  course, 
And  catching  up,  unmingied  at  the  source. 
Such  a  strength,  such  a  weakness,  added  then 
A  touch  or  two,  and  turned  them  into  men. 
Virtue  took  form,  nor  vice  refused  a  shaj^e ; 
Here  heaven  opened,  there  was  hell  agape, 
As  Saint  this  simpered  j^ast  in  sanctity. 
Sinner  the  other  flared  portentous  by 
A  greedy  people.     Then  why  stop,  surprised 
At  his  success  ?     The  scheme  was  realized 
Too  suddenly  in  one  respect :  a  crowd 
Praising,  eyes  quick  to  see,  and  lips  as  loud 
To  speak,  delicious  homage  to  receive. 
The  woman's  breatli  to  feel  upon  his  sleeve. 


228  SORDELLO 

Who  said,  '*  But  Anafest  — why  asks  he  less 

Than  Lucio,  in  your  verses  ?  how  confess, 

It  seemed  too  much  but  yestereve  !  "  —  the  youth, 

Who  bade  him  earnestly,  ''  Avow  the  truth  ! 

You  love  Bianca,  surely ,  from  your  song ; 

I  knew  I  was  unworthy  I  "  — soft  or  strong. 

In  poured  such  tributes  ere  he  had  arranged 

Ethereal  ways  to  take  them,  sorted,  changed, 

Digested.     Courted  thus  at  unawares. 

In  spite  of  his  pretensions  and  his  cares, 

He  caught  himself  shamefully  hankering 

After  the  obvious  petty  joys  that  spring 

From  true  life,  fain  relinquish  pedestal 

And  condescend  with  pleasures  —  one  and  all 

To  be  renounced,  no  doubt ;  for,  thus  to  chain 

Himself  to  single  joys  and  so  refrain 

From  tasting  their  quintessence,  frustrates,  sure, 

His  prime  design  ;   each  joy  must  he  abjure 

Even  for  love  of  it. 

11  e  laughed  :  what  sage 
But  perishes  if  from  his  magic  page 
He  look  because,  at  the  first  line,  a  proof 
'T  was  heard  salutes  him  from  the  cavern  roof  ? 
"  On  !     Give  yourself,  excluding  aught  beside, 
To  the  day's  task  ;  compel  your  slave  provide 
Its  utmost  at  the  soonest ;  turn  the  leaf 
Thoroughly  conned.     These  lays  of  yours,  in  brief  — 
Cannot  men  bear,  now,  something  better  ?  —  fly 
A  pitch  beyond  this  unreal  pageantry 
Of  essences  ?  the  period  sure  has  ceased 
For  such  :   present  us  with  ourselves,  at  least, 
Not  portions  of  ourselves,  mere  loves  and  hates 
Made  flesh  :  wait  not !  " 

Awliile  the  poet  waits 
However.     The  first  trial  was  enough : 
He  left  ima'^'ining,  to  try  the  stuff 
That  held  the  imaged  thing,  and,  let  it  writhe 
Never  so  fiercely,  scarce  allowed  a  tithe 
To  reach  the  light  —  his  Language.     How  he  sought 
The  cause,  conceived  a  cure,  and  slow  re-wrought 
That  Language,  —  welding  words  into  the  crude 
Mass  from  the  new  s])eech  round  him,  till  a  rude 
Armor  was  hammered  out,  in  time  to  be 
A])proved  beyond  the  Roman  panoply 
Melted  to  make  it,  —  boots  not.     This  obtained 
With  some  ado,  no  obstacle  remained 


DECLINES  FROM   THE   IDEAL    OF  SONG       229 

To  using  It :  accordingly  he  took 
An  action  with  its  actors,  quite  forsook 
Himself  to  live  in  each,  returned  anon 
With  the  result  —  a  creature,  and,  by  one 
And  one,  proceeded  leisurely  to  equip 
Its  limbs  in  harness  of  his  workmanship. 
"  Accomplished  !     Listen,  Mantuans  !  "     Fond  essay! 
Piece  after  piece  that  armor  lu'oke  away. 
Because  perceptions  whole,  like  that  he  sought 
To  clothe,  reject  so  pure  a  work  of  thought 
As  language  :  thought  may  take  percej^tion's  place 
But  hardly  co-exist  in  any  case, 
Being  its  mere  presentiment  —  of  the  whole 
By  parts,  the  simultaneous  and  the  sole 
By  the  successive  and  the  many.      Lacks 
The  crowd  perception  ?  painfully  it  tacks 
Thought  to  thought,  which  Sordello,  needing  such, 
Has  rent  perception  into  :  it 's  to  clutch 
And  reconstruct  —  his  office  to  diffuse, 
Destroy  :  as  hard,  then,  to  obtain  a  Muse 
As  to  become  Apollo.     "  For  the  rest. 
E'en  if  some  wondrous  vehicle  expressed 
The  wdiole  dream,  what  impertinence  in  me 
So  to  express  it,  who  myself  can  be 
The  dream  !  nor.  on  the  other  hand,  are  those 
I  sing  to,  over-likely  to  suppose 
A  higher  than  the  highest  I  present 
Now,  which  they  praise  already :  be  content 
Both  parties,  rather  —  they  with  the  old  verse. 
And  I  w^th  the  old  praise  —  far  go,  fare  worse  !  " 
A  few^  adhering  rivets  loosed,  ujisprings 
The  angel,  sparkles  off  his  mail,  and  rings 
Whirled  from  each  delicatest  limb  it  warps, 
As  might  Apollo  from  the  sudden  corpse 
Of  Hyacinth  have  cast  his  luckless  quoits. 
He  set  to  celebrating  the  exploits 
Of  Montfort  o'er  the  Mountaineers. 

Then  came 
The  world's  revenge :  their  pleasure,  now  his  aim 
Merely,  —  what  was  it  ?     •'  Not  to  Jilay  the  fool 
So  much  as  learn  our  lesson  in  your  school  I  " 
Replied  the  world.     He  found  that,  every  time 
He  gained  applause  by  any  ballad-rhyme. 
His  auditory  recognized  no  jot 
As  he  intended,  and,  mistaking  not 
Him  for  his  meanest  hero,  ne'er  was  dunce 


230  SORDELLO 

Sufficient  to  believe  him  —  all,  at  once. 

His  will  .  .   .  conceive  it  caring  for  his  will ! 

—  Mantuans,  the  main  of  them,  admiring  still 

How  a  mere  singer,  ugly,  stunted,  weak, 

Had  Montfort  at  completely  (so  to  speak) 

His  fingers'  ends  ;  while  past  the  praise-tide  swept 

To  Montfort,  cither's  share  distinctly  kept : 

The  true  meed  for  true  merit  I  —  his  abates 

Into  a  sort  he  most  repudiates, 

And  on  them  angrily  he  turns.      Who  were 

The  Mantuans,  after  all,  that  he  should  care 

About  their  recognition,  ay  or  no  ? 

In  spite  of  the  convention  months  ago, 

(Why  blink  the  truth  ?)   was  not  he  forced  to  help 

This  same  ungrateful  audience,  every  whelp 

Of  Naddo's  litter,  make  them  pass  for  jjeers 

With  the  bright  band  of  old  Goito  years, 

As  erst  he  toiled  for  flower  or  tree  ?     Why,  there 

Sat  Palma  !    Adelaide's  funereal  hair 

Ennobled  the  next  corner.     Ay,  he  strewed 

A  fairy  dust  upon  that  multitude, 

Although  he  feigned  to  take  them  by  themselves ; 

His  giants  dignified  those  puny  elves. 

Sublimed  their  faint  applause.     In  short,  he  found 

Himself  still  footing  a  delusive  round, 

Remote  as  ever  from  the  self-display 

He  meant  to  compass,  hampered  every  way 

By  what  he  hoped  assistance.     Wherefore  then 

Continue,  make  believe  to  find  in  men 

A  use  he  found  not  ? 

Weeks,  months,  years  went  by, 
And  lo,  Sordello  vanished  utterly. 
Sundered  in  twain  ;  each  spectral  part  at  strife 
With  each  ;  one  jarred  against  another  life  ; 
The  Poet  thwarting  hopelessly  the  Man 
Who,  fooled  no  longer,  free  in  fancy  ran 
Here,  there  ;  let  slip  no  opi)ortunities 
As  pitiful,  forsooth,  beside  the  prize 
To  drop  on  him  some  no-time  and  acquit 
His  constant  faith  (the  Poet-half's  to  wit  — 
That  waiving  any  compromise  between 
No  joy  and  all  joy  kept  the  hunger  keen 
Beyond  most  methods)  —  of  incurring  scoff 
From  the  Man-portion  —  not  to  be  put  off 
With  self-reflectings  by  the  Poet's  scheme. 
Though  ne'er  so  bright ;  —  that  sauntered  forth  in.  dream, 


THE  WHOLE  VISIBLE  SORDELLO  GOES  WRONG    231 

Dressed  anyhow,  nor  waited  mystic  frames, 

Immeasurable  gifts,  astounding  claims, 

But  just  his  sorry  self  —  who  yet  might  be 

Sjrrier  for  aught  he  in  reality 

Achieved,  so  pinioned  that  the  Poet-part, 

Fondling,  in  turn  of  fancy,  verse ;  the  Art 

Developing  his  soul  a  thousand  ways  — 

Potent,  by  its  assistance,  to  amaze 

The  multitude  with  majesties,  convince 

Each  sort  of  nature,  that  same  nature's  prince 

Accosted  it.     Language,  the  makeshift,  grew 

Into  a  bravest  of  expedients,  too  ; 

Apollo,  seemed  it  now,  perverse  had  thrown 

Quiver  and  bow  away,  the  lyre  alone 

Sufficed.     While,  out  of  dream,  his  day's  work  went 

To  tune  a  crazy  tenzon  or  sirvent  — 

So  hamj^ered  him  the  Man-part,  thrust  to  judge 

Between  the  bard  and  the  bard's  audience,  grudge 

A  minute's  toil  that  missed  its  due  reward  ! 

But  the  complete  Sordello,  Man  and  Bard, 

John's  cloud-girt  angel,  this  foot  on  the  land. 

That  on  the  sea,  with,  open  in  his  hand, 

A  bitter-sweetling  of  a  book  —  was  gone. 

Then,  if  internal  struggles  to  be  one 
That  frittered  him  incessantly  piecemeal, 
Referred,  ne'er  so  obliquely,  to  the  real 
Mantuans  !  intruding  ever  with  some  call 
To  action  while  he  pondered,  once  for  all. 
Which  looked  the  easier  effort  —  to  pursue 
This  course,  still  leap  o'er  paltry  joys,  yearn  through 
The  present  ill-appreciated  stage 
Of  self-revealment,  and  compel  the  age 
Know  him  ;  or  else,  forswearing  bard-craft,  wake 
From  out  his  lethargy  and  nobly  shake 
Off  timid  habits  of  denial,  mix 
With  men,  enjoy  like  men.      Ere  he  could  fix 
On  aught,  in  rushed  the  Mantuans  ;  much  they  cared 
For  his  perplexity  !     Thus  unjirepared. 
The  obvious  if  not  only  shelter  lay 
In  deeds,  the  dull  conventions  of  his  day 
Prescribed  the  like  of  him  :  why  not  be  glad 
'T  is  settled  Palma's  minstrel,  good  or  bad, 
Submits  to  this  and  that  established  rule  "^ 
Let  Vidal  change,  or  any  other  fool, 
His  murrey-colored  robe  for  filamot. 
And  crop  his  hair ;  too  skin-deep,  is  it  not, 


232  SORDELLO 

Such  vigor  ?     Then,  a  sorrow  to  the  heart, 

His  talk !     Whatever  topics  they  might  start 

Had  to  be  groped  for  in  his  consciousness 

Straight,  and  as  straight  delivered  them  by  guess. 

Only  obliged  to  ask  himself,  '•  What  was," 

A  speedy  answer  followed  ;  but,  alas. 

One  of  Gods  large  ones,  tardy  to  condense 

Itself  into  a  period  ;  answers  whence 

A  tangle  of  conclusions  must  be  stripped 

At  any  risk  ere,  trim  to  pattern  clipped, 

They  matched  rare  specimens  the  Mantuan  flock 

Regaled  him  with,  each  talker  from  his  stock 

Of  sorted-o'er  opinions,  every  stage. 

Juicy  in  youth  or  desiccate  with  age, 

Fruits  like  the  fig-tree's,  rathe-ripe,  rotten-rich, 

Sweet-sour,  all  tastes  to  take  :  a  practice  which 

He  too  had  not  impossibly  attained. 

Once  either  of  those  fancy-flights  restrained ; 

(For,  at  conjecture  how  might  words  appear 

To  others,  playing  there  what  happened  here, 

And  occupied  abroad  by  what  he  spurned 

At  home,  'twas  slipped,  the  occasion  he  returned 

To  seize  :)  he  'd  strike  that  lyre  adroitly  —  speech, 

Would  but  a  twenty-cubit  plectre  reach  ; 

A  clever  hand,  consummate  instrument. 

Were  both  brought  close  ;  each  excellency  went 

For  nothing,  else.     The  question  Naddo  asked. 

Had  just  a  lifetime  moderately  tasked 

To  answer,  Naddo's  fashion.     More  disgust 

And  more  :  why  move  his  soul,  since  move  it  must 

At  minute's  notice  or  as  good  it  failed 

To  move  at  all  ?     The  end  was,  he  retailed 

Some  ready-made  opinion,  put  to  use 

This  quip,  that  maxim,  ventm'ed  reproduce 

Gestures  and  tones  —  at  any  folly  caught 

Serving  to  finish  with,  nor  too  nuich  sought 

If  false  or  true  't  was  spoken  ;  praise  and  blame 

Of  what  he  said  grew  pretty  well  the  same 

—  Meantime  awards  to  meantime  acts  :  his  soul, 

Unequal  to  the  compassing  a  whole, 

Saw,  in  a  tenth  part,  less  and  less  to  strive 

About.     And  as  for  men  in  turn  .  .  .  contrive 

Who  could  to  take  eternal  interest 

In  them,  so  hate  the  worst,  so  love  the  best ! 

Though,  in  pursuance  of  his  passive  plan, 

He  hailed,  decried,  the  proper  way. 


HE  PLEASES  NEITHER  HIMSELF  NOR   THEM    233 

As  Man 
So  figured  he  ;  and  how  as  Poet  ?     Verse 
Came  only  not  to  a  stand-still.     The  worse, 
That  his  poor  piece  of  daily  work  to  do 
Was,  not  sink  under  any  rivals  ;  who 
Loudly  and  h)no-  enough,  without  these  qualms, 
Tuned,  from  Boeafoli's  stark-naked  psalms, 
To  Plara's  sonnets  spoilt  by  toying  with, 

*'  As  knops  that  stud  some  almug  to  the  pith 
Pricked  for  gum,  wry  thence,  and  crinkled  worse 
Than  pursed  eyelids  of  a  river-horse 

Sunning  himself  o*  the  slime  when  whirrs  the  breeze"  — 
Gad-Jiij^  that  is.     He  might  compete  with  these  ! 
But  —  but  — 

"  Observe  a  pompion-twine  afloat ; 
Pluck  me  one  cup  from  off  the  castle-moat  I 
Along  with  cup  you  raise  leaf,  stalk  and  root, 
The  entire  surface  of  the  pool  to  boot. 
So  could  I  pluck  a  cup,  put  in  one  song 
A  single  sight,  did  not  my  hand,  too  strong, 
Twitch  in  the  least  the  root-strings  of  the  whole. 
How  should  externals  satisfy  my  soul  ?  " 
"  Why  that 's  precise  the  error  Squarcialupe  " 
(Hazarded  Naddo)  "  finds  ;   '  the  man  can't  stoop 
To  sing  us  out,'  quoth  he,  "  a  mere  romance  ; 
He  'd  fain  do  better  than  the  best,  enhance 
The  subjects'  rarity,  work  problems  out 
Therewith  :  '  now,  you  're  a  bard,  a  bard  past  doubt, 
And  no  philosopher  ;  why  introduce 
Crotchets  like  these  ?  fine,  surely,  but  no  use 
In  poetry  —  which  still  must  be,  to  strike. 
Based  upon  common  sense  ;  there  's  nothing  like 
Apj^ealing  to  our  nature  !  what  beside 
Was  your  first  poetry  ?     No  tricks  were  tried 
In  that,  no  hollow  thrills,  affected  throes  ! 

'  The  man,'  said  we,  '  tells  his  own  joys  and  woes  : 
We  '11  trust  him.'     Would  you  have  your  songs  endure? 
Build  on  the  human  heart !  —  why,  to  be  sure 
Yours  is  one  sort  of  heart  —  but  I  mean  theirs. 
Ours,  every  one's,  the  healthy  heart  one  cares 
To  build  on  I     Central  peace,  mother  of  strength. 
That 's  father  of  .   .   .  nay.  go  yourself  that  length. 
Ask  those  calm-hearted  doers  what  they  do 
When  they  have  got  their  calm  I     And  is  it  true, 
Fire  rankles  at  the  heart  of  every  globe  ? 
Perhaps.     But  these  are  matters  one  may  probe 


234  SORDELLO 

Too  deeply  for  poetic  purposes  : 

Rather  select  a  theory  that  .  .  .  yes, 

Laugh  !  what  does  that  jDrove  ?  —  stations  you  midway 

And  saves  some  little  o'er-relining.     Nay, 

That 's  rank  injustice  done  me  !     I  restrict 

The  poet  ?     Don't  I  hold  the  poet  picked 

Out  of  a  host  of  warriors,  statesmen  .   .  .  did 

I  tell  you  ?     Very  like  !     As  well  you  hid 

That  sense  of  power,  you  have !     True  bards  believe 

All  able  to  achieve  what  they  achieve  — 

That  is,  just  nothing  —  in  one  point  abide 

Profounder  simpletons  than  all  beside. 

Oh,  ay !     The  knowledge  that  you  are  a  bard 

Must  constitute  your  prime,  nay  sole,  reward !  " 

So  prattled  Naddo,  busiest  of  the  tribe 

Of  genius-haunters  —  how  shall  I  describe 

\V  hat  grubs  or  nips  or  rubs  or  rij)s  —  your  louse 

For  love,  your  flea  for  hate,  magnanimous. 

Malignant,  PapjDacoda,  Tagliafer, 

Picking  a  sustenance  from  wear  and  tear 

By  implements  it  sedulous  employs 

To  undertake,  lay  down,  mete  out,  o'er-toise 

Sordello  ?     Fifty  creepers  to  elude 

At  once  !     They  settled  stanchly  ;  shame  ensued  : 

Behold  the  monarch  of  mankind  succumb 

To  the  last  fool  who  turned  him  round  his  thumb. 

As  Naddo  styled  it !     'T  was  not  worth  oppose 

The  matter  of  a  moment,  gainsay  those 

He  aimed  at  getting  rid  of ;  better  think 

Their  thoughts  and  speak  their  speech,  secure  to  slink 

Back  expeditiously  to  his  safe  place, 

And  chew  the  cud  —  what  he  and  what  his  race 

Were  really,  each  of  them.     Yet  even  this 

Conformity  was  partial.     He  would  miss 

Some  point,  brought  into  contact  with  them  ere 

Assured  in  what  small  segment  of  the  sphere 

Of  his  existence  they  attended  him  ; 

Whence  blunders,  falsehoods  rectify  —  a  grim 

List  —  slur  it  over  !     How  ?     If  dreams  were  tried. 

His  will  swayed  sicklily  from  side  to  side, 

Nor  merely  neutralized  his  waking  act 

But  tended  e'en  in  fancy  to  distract 

The  intermediate  will,  the  choice  of  means. 

He  lost  the  art  of  dreaming: :    Mantuan  scenes 

Supplied  a  baron,  say,  he  sang  before, 

Handsomely  reckless,  full  to  running  o'er 


HIS  DEGRADATION  IS   COMPLETE  235 

Of  gallantries  ;  "  abjure  the  soul,  content 

With  body,  therefore  !  ''     Scarcely  had  he  bent 

Himself  in  dream  thus  low,  when  matter  fast 

Cried  out,  he  found,  for  spirit  to  contrast 

And  task  it  duly  ;  by  advances  sliglit, 

The  simple  stutf  becoming  composite, 

Count  Lori  grew  Apollo  —  best  recall 

His  fancy  !     Then  would  some  rough  peasant-Paul, 

Like  those  old  Ecelin  confers  with,  glance 

His  gay  apparel  o'er  ;  that  countenance 

Gathered  his  shattered  fancy  into  one, 

And,  body  clean  abolished,  soul  alone 

Sutliced  the  gray  Paulician  :  by  and  by, 

To  balance  the  ethereality, 

Passions  were  needed  ;  foiled  he  sunk  again. 

Meanwhile  the  world  rejoiced  ('t  is  time  explain) 

Because  a  sudden  sickness  set  it  free 

From  Adelaide.     Missing  the  mother-bee, 

Her  mountain-hive  Romano  swarmed ;  at  once 

A  rustle-forth  of  daughters  and  of  sons 

Blackened  the  valley.     "  I  am  sick  too,  old, 

Half  crazed  I  think  ;  what  good  's  the  Kaiser's  gold 

To  such  an  one  ?    God  help  me  !  for  I  catch 

My  children's  greedy  sparkling  eyes  at  watch  — 
*He  bears  that  double  breastplate  on,'  they  say, 
'  So  many  minutes  less  than  yesterday  I  ' 

Beside,  Monk  Hilary  is  on  his  knees 

Now,  sworn  to  kneel  and  pray  till  God  shall  please 

Exact  a  jiunishment  for  many  things 

You  know,  and  some  you  never  knew ;  which  brings 

To  memory,  Azzo's  sister  Beatrix 

And  Richard's  Giglia  are  my  Alberlc's 

And  Ecelin 's  betrothed  ;  the  Count  himself 

Must  get  my  Palma  :  Ghibellin  and  Guelf 

Mean  to  embrace  each  other."     So  began 

Romano's  missive  to  his  fighting  man 

Taurello  —  on  the  Tuscan's  death,  away 

With  Friedrich  sworn  to  sail  from  Na})les'  bay 

Next  month  for  Syria.     Never  thunder-clap 

Out  of  Vesuvius'  throat,  like  this  mishap 

Startled  him.     ''  That  accursed  Vicenza  !     I 

Absent,  and  she  selects  this  time  to  die  I 

Ho,  fellows,  for  Vicenza  !  "     Half  a  score 

Of  horses  ridden  dead,  he  stood  before 

Romano  in  his  reeking  spurs  :  too  late  — 
"■  Boniface  urged  me,  Este  could  not  wait," 


236  SORDELLO 

The  chieftain  stammered  ;  "  let  me  die  in  peace  — 

Forget  me  I    Was  it  I  e'er  craved  increase 

Of  rule  ?     Do  you  and  Friedrich  plot  your  worst 

Against  the  Father :  as  you  found  me  first 

So  leave  me  now.     Forgive  me  I     Palma,  sure, 

Is  at  Goito  still.     Retain  that  lure  — 

Only  be  pacified  !  " 

The  country  rung 
"With  such  a  piece  of  news  :  on  every  tongue, 
How  Ecelin's  great  servant,  congeed  off, 
Had  done  a  long  day's  service,  so,  might  doff 
The  green  and  yellow,  and  recover  breath 
At  Mantua,  whither,  —  since  Retrude's  death, 
(The  girlish  slip  of  a  Sicilian  bride 
From  Otho's  house,  he  carried  to  reside 
At  Mantua  till  the  Ferrarese  should  pile 
A  structure  worthy  her  imperial  style, 
The  gardens  raise,  the  statues  there  enshrine, 
She  never  lived  to  see)  —  although  his  line 
Was  ancient  in  her  archives  and  she  took 
A  pride  in  him,  that  city,  nor  forsook 
Her  child  when  he  forsook  himself  and  spent 
A  jjrowess  on  Romano  surely  meant 
For  his  own  growth  —  whither  he  ne'er  resorts 
If  wholly  satisfied  (to  trust  reports) 
With  Ecelin.     So,  forward  in  a  trice 
Were  shows  to  greet  him.     "  Take  a  friend's  advice," 
Quoth  Naddo  to  Sordello,  "  nor  be  rash 
Because  your  rivals  (nothing  can  abash 
Some  folks)  demur  that  we  pronounced  you  best 
To  sound  the  great  man's  welcome  ;  't  is  a  test, 
Remember  !     Strojavacca  looks  asquint, 
The  rough  fat  sloven  ;  and  there's  plenty  hint 
Your  pinions  have  received  of  late  a  shock  — 
Outsoar  them,  cobswan  of  the  silver  flock  I 
Sing  well !  "     A  signal  wonder,  song  's  no  whit 
Facilitated. 

Fast  the  minutes  flit ; 
Another  day,  Sordello  finds,  will  bring 
The  soldier,  and  he  cannot  choose  but  sing  ; 
So,  a  last  shift,  quits  Mantua  —  slow,  alone  : 
Out  of  that  aching  brain,  a  very  stone. 
Song  must  be  struck.      What  occupies  that  front  ? 
Just  how  he  was  more  awkward  than  his  wont 
The  night  before,  when  Naddo,  who  had  seen 
Taurello  on  his  progress,  praised  the  mien 


HE  CHANCES  UPON  HIS  OLD  ENVIRONMENT    23" 

For  dignity  no  crosses  could  affect  — 

Such  was  a  joy,  and  might  not  he  detect 

A  satisfaction  if  established  joys 

Were  proved  ini})osture  ?     Poetry  annoys 

Its  utmost :  wherefore  fret  ?     Verses  may  come 

Or  keep  away !     And  thus  he  wandered,  dumb 

Till  evening,  when  he  paused,  thoroughly  spent, 

On  a  blind  hill-top :  down  the  gorge  he  went, 

Yielding  himself  up  as  to  an  embrace. 

The  moon  came  out ;  like  features  of  a  face, 

A  querulous  fraternity  of  pines. 

Sad  blackthorn  clumps,  leafless  and  grovelling  vines 

Also  came  out,  made  gradually  up 

The  picture  ;  't  was  Goito's  mountain-cup 

And  castle.     He  had  dropped  through  one  defile 

He  never  dared  explore,  the  Chief  erewhile 

Had  vanished  by.     Back  rushed  the  dream,  enwrapped 

Him  wholly.     'T  was  Apollo  now  they  lapped. 

Those  mountains,  not  a  pettish  minstrel  meant 

To  wear  his  soul  away  in  discontent. 

Brooding  on  fortune's  malice.     Heart  and  brain 

Swelled ;  he  expanded  to  himself  again. 

As  some  thin  seedling  spice-tree  starved  and  frail, 

Pushing  between  cat's  head  and  ibis'  tail 

Crusted  into  the  porphyry  pavement  smooth, 

—  Suffered  remain  just  as  it  sprung,  to  soothe 

The  Soldan's  pining  daughter,  never  yet 

Well  in  her  chilly  gi-een-glazed  minaret,  — 

When  rooted  up,  the  sunny  day  she  died, 

And  flung  into  the  common  court  beside 

Its  parent  tree.     Come  home,  Sordello  !     Soon 

Was  he  low  muttering,  beneath  the  moon, 

Of  sorrow  saved,  of  quiet  evermore,  — 

Since  from  the  purpose,  he  maintained  before, 

Only  resulted  wailing  and  hot  tears. 

Ah,  the  slim  castle !  dwindled  of  late  years, 

But  more  mysterious  ;  gone  to  ruin  —  trails 

Of  vine  through  every  loop-hole.     Nought  avails 

The  night  as,  torch  in  hand,  he  must  explore 

The  maple  chamber :  did  I  say,  its  floor 

Was  made  of  intersecting  cedar  beams  ? 

Worn  now  with  gaps  so  large,  there  blew  cold  streams 

Of  air  quite  from  the  dungeon ;  lay  your  ear 

Close  and  'tis  like,  one  after  one,  you  hear 

In  the  blind  darkness  water  drop.     The  nests 

And  nooks  retain  their  long  ranged  vesture-chests 


238  SORDELLO 

Empty  and  smelling  of  the  iris  root 
The  Tuscan  grated  o'er  them  to  recruit 
Her  wasted  wits.     Palma  was  gone  that  day, 
Said  the  remaining  women.     Last,  he  lay 
Beside  the  Carian  group  reserved  and  still. 
The  Body,  the  Machine  for  Acting  Will, 
Had  been  at  the  commencement  proved  unfit ; 
That  for  Demonstrating,  Reflecting  it. 
Mankind  —  no  fitter  :  was  the  Will  Itself 
In  fault? 

His  forehead  pressed  the  moonlit  shelf 
Beside  the  youngest  marble  maid  awhile  ; 
Then,  raising  it,  he  thought,  with  a  long  smile, 

"  I  shall  be  king  again  !  "  as  he  withdrew 
The  envied  scarf  ;  into  the  font  he  threw 
His  crown. 

Next  day,  no  poet !     "  Wherefore  ?  "  asked 
Taurello,  when  the  dance  of  Jongleurs,  masked 
As  devils,  ended  ;  "  don't  a  song  come  next  ?  " 
The  master  of  the  pageant  looked  j^erplexed 
Till  Naddo's  whisper  came  to  his  relief. 

"  His  Highness  knew  wliat  j^oets  were  :  in  brief. 
Had  not  the  tetchy  race  prescriptive  right 
To  peevishness,  caprice  ?  or,  call  it  spite, 
One  must  receive  their  nature  in  its  length 
And  breadth,  expect  the  weakness  with  the  strength  !  " 
—  So  phrasing,  till,  his  stock  of  phrases  spent, 
The  easy-natured  soldier  smiled  assent, 
Settled  his  portly  person,  smoothed  his  chin. 
And  nodded  that  the  bull-bait  might  begin. 


BOOK    THE    THIRD. 

And  the  font  took  them  :  let  our  laurels  lie  ! 
Braid  moonfern  now  with  mystic  trifoly 
Because  once  more  Goito  gets,  once  more, 
Sordello  to  itself !     A  dream  is  o'er. 
And  the  suspended  life  begins  anew  ; 
Quiet  those  throbbing  temples,  then,  subdue 
That  cheek's  distortion  !     Nature's  strict  embrace, 
Putting  aside  the  past,  shall  soon  efface 
Its  print  as  well  —  factitious  humors  grown 


LIFE  AND  DEATH  IN  NATURE  239 

Over  the  true  —  loves,  hatreds  not  his  own  — 
And  turn  him  pure  as  some  forgotten  vest- 
Woven  of  painted  byssus,  silkiest 
Tufting  the  Tyrrhene  whelk's  pearl-sheeted  hp, 
Left  welter  where  a  trireme  let  it  slip 
I'  the  sea,  and  vexed  a  satrap  ;  so  the  stain 
O'  tlie  world  forsakes  Sordello,  with  its  pain. 
Its  pleasure  :  how  the  tinct  loosening  escapes, 
Cloud  after  cloud  !      Mantua's  familiar  shapes 
Die,  f.iir  and  foul  die,  fading  as  they  flit, 
JNIen,  women,  and  the  pathos  and  the  wit. 
Wise  speech  and  foolish,  deeds  to  smile  or  sigh 
For,  good,  bad,  seemly  or  ignoble,  die. 
The  last  face  glances  through  the  eglantines. 
The  last  voice  murmurs  'twixt  the  blossomed  vines 
Of  Men,  of  that  machine  supplied  by  thought 
To  compass  self-perception  with,  he  sought 
By  forcing  half  himself  —  an  insane  pulse 
Of  a  god's  blood,  on  clay  it  could  convulse. 
Never  transmute  —  on  human  sights  and  sounds, 
To  watch  the  other  half  with  ;  irksome  bounds 
It  ebbs  from  to  its  source,  a  fountain  sealed 
Forever.     Better  sure  be  unrevealed 
Than  part  revealed  :  Sordello  well  or  ill 
Is  finished  :  then  w^hat  further  use  of  Will, 
Point  in  the  prime  idea  not  realized, 
An  oversight  ?  inordinately  prized. 
No  less,  and  pampered  with  enough  of  each 
Dehght  to  prove  the  whole  above  its  reach. 
'^  To  need  become  all  natures,  yet  retain 
The  law  of  my  own  nature  —  to  remain 
Myself,  yet  yearn  ...  as  if  that  chestnut,  think, 
Should  yearn  for  this  first  larch-bloom  crisp  and  pink, 
Or  those  pale  fragrant  tears  where  zephyrs  stanch 
March  wounds  along  the  fretted  pine-tree  branch  ! 
Will  and  the  means  to  show  will,  great  and  small. 
Material,  spiritual,  —  abjure  them  all 
Save  any  so  distinct,  they  may  be  left 
To  amuse,  not  tempt  become  !  and,  thus  bereft. 
Just  as  I  first  was  fashioned  w^ould  I  be  I 
Nor,  moon,  is  it  Aj^ollo  now,  but  me 
Thou  visitest  to  comfort  and  befriend  ! 
Swim  thou  into  my  heart,  and  there  an  end, 
Since  I  possess  thee !  —  nay,  thus  shut  mine  eyes 
And  know,  quite  know,  by  this  heart's  fall  and  rise, 
When  thou  dost  bury  thee  in  clouds,  and  when 


240  SORDELLO 

Out-standest :  wherefore  practise  upon  men 
To  make  that  plainer  to  myself  ?  " 

Slide  here 
Over  a  sweet  and  solitary  year 
Wasted  ;  or  simply  notice  change  in  him  — 
How  eyes,  bright  with  exploring  once,  grew  dim 
And  satiate  with  receiving.     Some  distress 
Was  caused,  too,  by  a  sort  of  consciousness 
Under  the  imbecility,  —  nought  kept 
That  down  ;  he  slept,  but  was  aware  he  slept, 
So,  frustrated  :  as  who  brainsick  made  pact 
Erst  with  the  overhanging  cataract 
To  deafen  him,  yet  still  distinguished  slow 
His  own  blood's  measured  clicking  at  his  brow. 

To  finish.     One  declining  Autumn  day  — 
Few  birds  about  the  heaven  chill  and  gray, 
No  wind  that  cared  trouble  the  tacit  woods  — 
He  sauntered  home  complacently,  their  moods 
According,  his  and  nature's.     Every  spark 
Of  Mantua  life  was  trodden  out ;  so  dark 
The  embers,  that  the  Troubadour,  who  sung 
Hundreds  of  songs,  forgot,  its  trick  his  tongue, 
Its  craft  his  brain,  how  either  brought  to  pass 
Singing  at  all ;  that  faculty  might  class 
With  any  of  Apollo's  now.     The  year 
Began  to  find  its  early  promise  sere 
As  well.     Thus  beauty  vanishes  ;  thus  stone 
Outlingers  flesh :   nature's  and  his  youth  gone, 
They  left  the  world  to  you,  and  wished  you  joy, 
When,  stopping  his  benevolent  employ, 
A  presage  shuddered  through  the  welkin  ;  harsh 
The  earth's  remonstrance  followed.     'T  was  the  marsh 
Gone  of  a  sudden.     Mincio,  in  its  place, 
Laughed,  a  broad  water,  in  next  morning's  face, 
And,  where  the  mists  broke  up  immense  and  white 
I'  the  steady  wind,  burned  like  a  spilth  of  light 
Out  of  the  crashing  of  a  myriad  stars. 
And  liere  was  nature,  bound  by  the  same  bars 
Of  fate  with  him  ! 

"  No  !  youth  once  gone  is  gone  : 
Deeds  let  escape  are  never  to  be  done. 
Leaf -fall  and  grass-spring  for  the  year  ;  for  us  — 
Oh  forfeit  I  unalterably  thus 
My  chance  ?  nor  two  lives  wait  me,  this  to  spend 
Learning  save  that?     Nature  has  time,  may  mend 
Mistake,  she  knows  occasion  will  recur ; 


MAN  HAS  MULTIFARIOUS  SYMPATHIES       241 

Landslip  or  seabreach,  how  affects  it  her 

With  her  magnificent  resources  ?  —  I 

Must  perish  once  and  perish  utterly. 

Not  any  strollings  now  at  even-close 

Down  the  field-path,  Sordello  !  by  thorn-rows 

Alive  with  lamjj-flies,  swimming  spots  of  fire 

And  dew,  outlining-  the  black  cypress'  spire 

She  waits  you  at,  Elys,  who  heard  you  first 

Woo  her,  the  snow-month  through,  but  ere  she  durst 

Answer  't  was  April.     Linden-flower-time-long 

Her  eyes  were  on  the  ground  ;  't  is  July,  strong 

Now ;  and  because  wliite  dust-clouds  overwhelm 

The  woodsicle,  here  or  by  the  village  elm 

That  holds  the  moon,  she  meets  you,  somewhat  pale, 

But  letting  you  lift  up  her  coarse  flax  veil 

And  whisper  (the  damp  little  hand  in  yours) 

Of  love,  heart's  love,  your  heart's  love  that  endures 

Till  death.     Tush !     No  mad  mixing  with  the  rout 

Of  haggard  ribalds  wandering  about 

The  hot  torchlit  wine-scented  island-house 

Where  Friedrich  holds  his  wickedest  carouse, 

Parading,  —  to  the  gay  Palermitans, 

Soft  Messinese,  dusk  Saracenic  clans 

Nuocera  holds,  —  those  tall  gTave  dazzling  Norse, 

High-cheeked,  lank-haired,  toothed  whiter  than  the  morse, 

Queen  of  the  caves  of  jet  stalactites, 

He  sent  his  barks  to  fetch  through  icy  seas, 

The  blind  night  seas  without  a  saving  star. 

And  here  in  snowy  birdskin  robes  they  are, 

Sordello  I  —  here,  mollitious  alcoves  gilt 

Superb  as  Byzant  domes  that  devils  built ! 

—  Ah,  Byzant,  there  again  I  no  chance  to  go 

Ever  like  august  pleasant  Dandolo, 

Worshipping  hearts  about  him  for  a  wall, 

Conducted,  blind  eyes,  hundred  years  and  all, 

Through  vanquished  Byzant  where  friends  note  for  him 

What  pillar,  marble  massive,  sardius  slim, 

'T  were  fittest  he  transport  to  Venice'  Square  — 

Flattered  and  promised  life  to  touch  them  there 

Soon,  by  those  fervid  sons  of  senators  ! 

No  more  lives,  deaths,  loves,  hatreds,  peaces,  wars ! 

Ah,  fragments  of  a  whole  ordained  to  be, 

Points  in  the  life  I  waited  !  what  are  ye 

But  roundels  of  a  ladder  which  appeared 

Awhile  the  very  platform  it  was  reared 

To  lift  me  on  ?  —  that  happiness  I  find 


242  SORDELLO 

Proofs  of  my  faith  in,  even  in  the  blind 

Instinct  which  bade  forego  you  all  unless 

Ye  led  me  past  yourselves.     Ay,  happiness 

Awaited  me  ;  the  way  life  should  be  used 

Was  to  acquire,  and  deeds  like  you  conduced 

To  teach  it  by  a  self-revealment,  deemed 

The  very  use,  so  long !     Whatever  seemed 

Progress  to  that,  was  pleasure  ;  aught  that  stayed 

My  reaching  it  —  no  pleasure.     I  have  laid 

The  ladder  down  ;    I  climb  not ;  still,  aloft 

The  platform  stretches !     Blisses  strong  and  soft, 

I  dared  not  entertain,  elude  me ;  yet 

Never  of  what  they  promised  could  I  get 

A  glimpse  till  now  !     The  common  sort,  the  crowd, 

Exist,  perceive  ;  with  Being  are  endowed, 

However  slight,  distinct  from  what  they  See, 

However  bounded  ;  Happiness  must  be. 

To  feed  the  first  by  gleanings  from  the  last, 

Attain  its  qualities,  and  slow  or  fast 

Become  what  they  behold  ;  such  peace-in  strife 

By  transmutation,  is  the  Use  of  Life, 

The  Alien  turning  Native  to  the  soul 

Or  body  —  whicli  instructs  me  ;  I  am  whole 

There  and  demand  a  Palma  :  had  the  world 

Been  from  my  soul  to  a  like  distance  hurled, 

'T  were  Happiness  to  make  it  one  with  me  : 

Whereas  I  must,  ere  I  begin  to  Be, 

Include  a  world,  in  flesh,  I  comprehend 

In  spirit  now  ;  and  this  done,  what 's  to  blend 

With  ?     Nought  is  Alien  in  the  world  —  my  Will 

Owns  all  already  ;  yet  can  turn  it  still 

Less  Native,  since  my  Means  to  correspond 

With  Will  are  so  unworthy,  't  was  my  bond 

To  tread  the  very  joys  that  tantalize 

Most  now,  into  a  grave,  never  to  rise. 

I  die  then  !     Will  the  rest  agree  to  die  ? 

Next  Age  or  no  ?    Shall  its  Sordello  try 

Clue  after  clue,  and  catch  at  last  the  clue 

I  miss  ?  —  that 's  underneath  my  finger  too. 

Twice,  thrice  a  day,  perhaps,  —  some  yearning  traced 

Deeper,  some  petty  consequence  embraced 

Closer  !     Why  fled  I  Mantua,  then  ?  —  complained 

So  much  my  Will  was  fettered,  yet  remained 

Content  within  a  tether  half  tlie  range 

I  could  assign  it  ?  —  able  to  excliange 

My  ignorance  (I  felt)  for  knowledge,  and 


RENUNCIATIOS  INSURES  DESPAIR  243 

Idle  because  I  could  thus  understand  — 

Could  e'en  have  penetrated  to  its  core 

Our  mortal  mystery,  and  yet  forbore, 

Preferred  elaborating  in  the  dark 

My  casual  stuff,  by  any  wretched  spark 

Born  of  my  predecessors,  though  one  stroke 

Of  mine  had  brought  the  flame  forth  !     Mantua's  yoke, 

My  minstrel's-trade,  was  to  behold  mankind,  — 

My  own  concernment  —  just  to  bring  my  mind 

Behold,  just  extricate,  for  my  acquist. 

Each  object  suffered  stifle  in  the  mist 

Which  hazard,  use  and  blindness  could  impose 

In  their  relation  to  myself." 

He  rose. 
The  level  wind  carried  above  the  firs 
Clouds,  the  irrevocable  travellers, 
Onward. 

"  Pushed  thus  into  a  drowsy  copse, 
Arms  twine  about  my  neck,  each  eyelid  drops 
Under  a  humid  finger ;  while  there  fleets, 
Outside  the  screen,  a  pageant  time  repeats 
Never  again  !     To  be  deposed,  immured 
Clandestinely  —  still  petted,  still  assured 
To  govern  were  fatiguing  work  —  the  Sight 
Fleeting  meanwhile  !     'T  is  noontide  :  wreak  ere  night 
Somehow  my  will  upon  it,  rather  !     Slake 
This  thirst  somehow,  the  poorest  impress  take 
That  serves  !     A  blasted  b^id  displays  you,  torn, 
Faint  rudiments  of  the  full  flower  unborn  ; 
But  who  divines  what  glory  coats  o'erclasp 
Of  the  bulb  dormant  in  the  mummy's  grasj) 
Taurello  sent  ?  "  .  .  . 

"  Taurello  ?     Palma  sent 
Your  Trouvere,"  (Naddo  interposing  leant 
Over  the  lost  bard's  shoulder)  —  "  and,  believe, 
You  cannot  more  reluctantly  receive 
Than  I  pronounce  her  message  :  we  depart 
Together.      What  avail  a  poet's  heart 
Verona's  pomps  and  gauds  ?  five  blades  of  grass 
Suffice  him.     News?     Why,  where  your  marish  was. 
On  its  mud-banks  smoke  rises  after  smoke 
I'  the  valley,  like  a  spout  of  hell  new-broke. 
Oh,  the  world's  tidings  !  small  your  thanks,  I  guess, 
For  them.     The  father  of  our  Patroness 
Has  played  Taurello  an  astounding  trick. 
Parts  between  Ecelin  and  Alberic 


2^4  SORDELLO 

His  wealth  and  goes  into  a  convent :  both 

Wed  Guelfs  :  the  Count  and  Pahna  plighted  troth 

A  week  since  at  Verona  :  and  they  want 

You  doubtless  to  contrive  the  marriasfe-chant 

Ere  Richard  storms  Ferrara."     Then  was  told 

The  tale  from  the  beginning  —  how,  made  bold 

By  Salinguerra's  absence,  Guelfs  had  burned 

And  pillaged  till  he  unawares  returned 

To  take  revenge  :  how  Azzo  and  his  friend 

Were  doing  their  endeavor,  how  the  end 

O'  the  siege  was  nigh,  and  how  the  Count,  released 

From  further  care,  v»^ould  with  his  marriage-feast 

Inaugurate  a  new  and  better  rule, 

Absorbing  thus  Romano. 

"  Shall  I  school 
My  master,"  added  Naddo,  ''  and  suggest 
How  you  may  clothe  in  a  poetic  vest 
These  doings,  at  Verona  ?     Your  response 
To  Palma  I     Wherefore  jest  ?     '  Depart  at  once  ?  ' 
A  good  resolve  !      In  truth,  I  hardly  hoped 
So  prompt  an  acquiescence.     Have  you  groped 
Out  wisdom  in  the  wilds  here  ?  —  Thoughts  may  be 
Over-poetical  for  poetry. 
Pearl-white,  you  poets  liken  Raima's  neck  ; 
And  yet  what  spoils  an  orient  like  some  s])eck 
Of  genuine  white,  turning  its  own  white  gray  ? 
You  take  me  ?     Curse  the  cicala  !  " 

One  more  day, 
One  eve  —  appears  Verona  !     Many  a  group, 
(You  mind)  instructed  of  the  osprey's  swoop 
On  Inyx  and  ounce,  was  gathering  —  Christendom 
Sure  to  receive,  whate'er  the  end  was,  from 
The  evening's  purpose  cheer  or  detriment, 
Since  Friedrich  only  waited  some  event 
Like  this,  of  Ghil)ellins  establishing 
.Themselves  within  Ferrara,  ere,  as  King 
Of  Lombardy,  he'd  glad  descend  there,  wage 
Old  warfare  with  the  Pontiff,  disengage 
His  barons  from  the  burghers,  and  restore 
The  rule  of  Charlemagne,  broken  of  yore 
By  Hildebrand. 

I '  the  palace,  each  by  each, 
Sordello  sat  and  Palma  :  little  speech 
At  first  in  that  dim  closet,  face  M^ith  face 
(Des])ite  the  tumult  in  the  market-i)lace) 
Exchanging  (pilck  low  laughters  :   now  would  rush 


PALMA    BECOMES   II IS   ASSOCIATE  24.J 

Word  upon  word  to  meet  a  sudden  flush, 
A  look  left  off,  a  shifting-  lips'  surmise  — 
But  for  tlie  most  part  their  two  histories 
Ran  best  through  the  locked  fingers  and  linked  arms. 
And  so  the  night  flew  on  with  its  alarms 
Till  in  burst  one  of  Palma's  retinue  ; 
"  Now,  Lady  !  "  gasped  he.     Then  arose  the  two 
And  leaned  into  Verona's  air,  dead-still. 
A  balcony  lay  black  beneath  until 
Out,  'mid  a  gusli  of  torchfire,  gray-hah*ed  men 
Came  on  it  and  harangued  the  people  :  then 
Sea-like  that  people  surging  to  and  fro 
Shouted,  ''  Hale  forth  the  carroch  —  trumpets,  ho, 
A  flourish !      Run  it  in  the  ancient  grooves  ! 
Back  from  the  bell !      Hammer  —  that  whom  behooves 
May  hear  the  League  is  up  !     Peal  —  learn  who  list, 
Verona  means  not  be  the  first  break  tryst 
To-morrow  with  the  League!  " 

Enough.     Now  turn  — 
Over  the  eastern  cypresses  :  discern  ! 
Is  any  beacon  set  a-glimmer  ? 

Rang 
The  air  with  shouts  that  overpowered  the  clang 
Of  the  incessant  carroch,  even  :   "  Haste  — 
The  candle  's  at  the  gateway  !  ere  it  waste, 
Each  soldier  stand  beside  it,  armed  to  march 
With  Tiso  Sampier  through  the  eastern  arch  !  " 
Ferrara  's  succored,  Palma  ! 

Once  again 
They  sat  together  ;  some  strange  thing  in  train 
To  say,  so  difficult  was  Raima's  place 
In  taking,  with  a  coy  fastidious  grace 
Like  the  bird's  flutter  ere  it  fix  and  feed. 
But  when  she  felt  she  held  her  friend  indeed 
Safe,  she  threw  back  her  curls,  began  implant 
Her  lessons  ;  telling  of  another  want 
Goito's  quiet  nourished  than  his  own  ; 
Palma  —  to  serve,  as  him  —  be  served,  alone 
Importing  ;  Agnes'  milk  so  neutralized 
The  blood  of  Ecelin.     Nor  be  surprised 
If,  while  Sordello  fain  had  captive  led 
Nature,  in  dream  was  Palma  subjected 
To  some  out-soul,  which  dawned  not  though  she  pined 
Delaying  till  its  advent,  heart  and  mind, 
Their  life.      "  How^  dared  I  let  expand  the  force 
Within  me,  till  some  out-soul,  whose  resource 


246  SORDELLO 

It  grew  for,  should  direct  it  ?     Every  law 

Of  life,  its  every  fitness,  every  flaw, 

Must  One  determine  whose  corporeal  shape 

Would  be  no  other  than  the  prime  escape 

And  revelation  to  me  of  a  Will 

Orb-like  o'ershrouded  and  inscrutable 

Above,  save  at  the  point  which,  I  should  know, 

Shone  that  myself,  my  powers,  might  overflow 

So  far,  so  much  ;  as  now  it  signified 

Which  earthly  shape  it  henceforth  chose  my  guide, 

Whose  mortal  lip  selected  to  declare 

Its  oracles,  what  fleshly  garb  would  wear 

—  The  first  of  intimations,  whom  to  love  ; 

The  next,  how  love  him.     Seemed  that  orb,  above 

The  castle-covert  and  the  mountain-close. 

Slow  in  appearing,  —  if  beneath  it  rose 

Cravings,  aversions,  —  did  our  green  precinct 

Take  pride  in  me,  at  unawares  distinct 

AVith  this  or  that  endowment,  —  how,  repressed 

At  once,  such  jetting  power  shrunk  to  the  rest ! 

Was  I  to  have  a  chance  touch  spoil  me,  leave 

My  spirit  thence  unfitted  to  receive 

The  consummating  spell  ?  —  that  spell  so  near 

Moreover  !     '  Waits  he  not  the  waking  year  ? 

His  almond-blossoms  must  be  honey-ripe 

By  this  ;  to  welcome  him,  fresh  runnels  stripe 

Tlie  thawed  ravines  ;   because  of  him,  the  wind 

Walks  like  a  herald.     I  shall  surely  find 

Him  now !  ' 

"  And  chief,  that  earnest  April  morn 
Of  Richard's  Love-court,  was  it  time,  so  worn 
And  white  my  cheek,  so  idly  my  blood  beat, 
Sitting  that  morn  beside  the  Lady's  feet 
And  saying  as  she  prompted  ;  till  outburst 
One  face  from  all  the  faces  —  not  then  first 
I  knew  it ;  where  in  maple  chamber  glooms, 
Crowned  with  what  sanguine-heart  pomegranate  blooms 
Advanced  it  ever  ?     Men's  acknowledgment 
Sanctioned  my  own  :  't  was  taken,  Palma's  bent,  — 
Sordello,  accepted. 

"  And  the  Tuscan  dumb 
Sat  scheming,  scheming.     Ecelin  would  come 
Gaunt,  scared,  '  Cesano  baftles  me,'  he  'd  say  : 
'  Better  I  fought  it  out,  my  father's  way  I 
Strangle  Ferrara  in  its  drowning  flats, 
And  you  and  your  Taurello  yonder  —  what 's 


FOR  HIS  SAKE   SHE  ASPIRED  24' 

Romano's  business  there  ?  '     An  hour's  concern 

To  cure  the  froward  Chief  !  —  induced  return 

Much  heartened  from  those  overmeaning  eyes, 

Wound  u})  to  persevere,  —  his  enterprise 

Marked  out  anew,  its  exigent  of  wit 

Apportioned,  —  she  at  liberty  to  sit 

And  scheme  against  the  next  emergence,  I  — 

To  covet  lier  Taurello-sprite,  made  fly 

Or  fold  the  wing  —  to  con  your  horoscope 

For  leave  command  those  steely  shafts  shoot  ope, 

Or  straight  assuage  their  blinding  eagerness 

To  blank  smooth  snow.      ^Yhat  semblance  of  success 

To  any  of  my  plans  for  making  you 

Mine  and  Romano's  ?     Break  the  first  wall  through, 

Tread  o'er  the  ruins  of  the  Chief,  supplant 

His  sons  beside,  still,  vainest  were  the  vaunt : 

There,  Salinguerra  would  obstruct  me  sheer, 

And  the  insuperable  Tuscan,  here. 

Stay  me  !     But  one  wild  eve  that  Lady  died 

In  her  lone  chamber  :  only  I  beside  : 

Taurello  far  at  Naples,  and  my  sire 

At  Padua,  Ecelin  away  in  ire 

With  Alberic.     She  held  me  thus  —  a  clutch 

To  make  our  s})irits  as  our  bodies  touch  — 

And  so  began  flinging  the  past  up,  heaps 

Of  uncouth  treasure  from  their  sunless  sleeps 

Within  her  soul ;  deeds  rose  along  with  dreams. 

Fragments  of  many  miserable  schemes. 

Secrets,  more  secrets,  then  —  no,  not  the  last  — 

'Mongst  others,  like  a  casual  trick  o'  the  past. 

How  .   .  .   ay,  she  told  me,  gathering  up  her  face. 

All  left  of  it,  into  one  arch-grimace 

To  die  with  .   .   . 

"  Friend,  't  is  gone  I  but  not  the  fear 
Of  that  fell  laughing,  heard  as  now  I  hear. 
Nor  faltered  voice,  nor  seemed  her  heart  grow  weak 
When  i'  the  midst  abru})t  she  ceased  to  speak 
—  Dead,  as  to  serve  a  purpose,  mark  I  —  for  in 
Rushed  o'  the  very  instant  Ecelin 
(How  summoned,  who  divines  ?)  —  looking  as  if 
He  understood  why  Adelaide  lay  stiff 
Already  in  my  arms  ;  for,  '  Girl,  how  must 
I  manage  Este  in  the  matter  thrust 
Upon  me,  how  unravel  your  bad  coil  ?  — 
Since  '  (he  declared)  '  't  is  on  your  brow  —  a  soil 
Like  hers,  there  !  '  then  in  tlie  same  breath,  '  he  lacked 


248  SORDELLO 

No  counsel  after  all,  had  signed  no  pact 
With  devils,  nor  was  treason  here  or  there, 
Goito  or  Vicenza,  his  affair : 
He  buried  it  in  Adelaide's  deep  grave, 
Would  begin  life  afresh,  now,  —  would  not  slave 
For  any  Friedrich's  nor  Taurello's  sake ! 
What  booted  him  to  meddle  or  to  make 
In  Lombardy  ? '     And  afterward  I  knew 
The  meaning  of  his  promise  to  undo 
All  she  had  done  —  why  marriages  were  made, 
New  friendships  entered  on,  old  followers  paid 
With  curses  for  their  pains,  —  new  friends'  amaze 
At  height,  when,  passing  out  by  Gate  St.  Blaise, 
He  stopped  short  in  Yicenza,  bent  his  head 
Over  a  friar's  neck,  —  '  had  vowed,'  he  said, 
'  Long  since,  nigh  thirty  years,  because  his  wife 
And  child  were  saved  there,  to  bestow  his  life 
On  God,  his  gettings  on  the  Church.' 

"Exiled 
Within  Goito,  still  one  dream  beguiled 
My  days  and  nights  ;  't  was  found,  the  orb  I  sought 
To  serve,  those  glimpses  came  of  Fomalhaut, 
No  other  :  but  how  serve  it  ?  —  authorize 
You  and  Romano  mingle  destinies  ? 
And  straight  Romano's  angel  stood  beside 
Me  who  bad  else  been  Boniface's  bride. 
For  Salinguerra  't  was,  with  neck  low  bent, 
And  voice  lightened  to  music,  (as  he  meant 
To  learn  not  teach  me,)  who  withdrew  the  pall 
From  the  dead  past  and  straight  revived  it  all, 
Making  me  see  how  first  Romano  waxed. 
Wherefore  he  waned  now,  why,  if  I  relaxed 
]\Iy  grasp  (even  1 1 )  would  drop  a  thing  effete, 
Frayed  by  itself,  unequal  to  complete 
Its  course,  and  counting  every  step  astray 
A  gain  so  mucli.     Romano,  every  way 
Stable,  a  Lombard  House  now  —  why  start  back 
Into  the  very  outset  of  its  track  ? 
This  i)atching  princii)le  which  late  allied 
Our  House  with  other  Houses  —  what  beside 
Concerned  the  api)arition,  the  first  Knight 
Who  followed  Conrad  hither  in  such  plight 
His  utmost  wealth  was  summed  in  his  one  steed  ? 
For  Ecelo,  that  prowler,  was  decreed 
A  task,  in  the  beginning  hazardous 
To  him  as  ever  task  can  be  to  us ; 


SALINGUERRA  REMEDIES  ECEUN'S  ERRORS    2-L9 

But  did  the  weather-beaten  thief  despair 

When  first  our  crystal  cincture  of  warm  air, — 

That  binds  tlie  Trevisan,  —  as  its  spice-belt 

(Crusaders  say)  the  tract  where  Jesus  dwelt,  — 

Furtive  he  pierced,  and  Este  was  to  face  — 

Despaired  Saponian  strength  of  Lombard  grace  ? 

Tried  he  at  making  surer  aught  made  sure, 

IMaturing  what  already  was  mature  ? 

No  ;  his  heart  prompted  Eoelo,  '  Confront 

Este,  inspect  yourself.     What 's  nature  ?     Wont. 

Discard  three-paits  your  nature,  and  adopt 

The  rest  as  an  advantage  !  '     Old  strength  propped 

The  man  who  first  e^rew  Podesta  amons: 

The  Vicentines,  no  less  than,  while  there  sprung 

His  palace  up  in  Padua  like  a  threat. 

Their  noblest  spied  a  grace,  unnoticed  yet 

In  Conrad's  crew.     Thus  far  the  object  gained, 

Romano  was  established  —  has  remained  — 

For  are  you  not  Italian,  truly  peers 

With  Este  ?     '  Azzo  '  better  soothes  our  ears 

Than  '  Alberic  '  ?  or  is  this  lion's-crine 

From  over-mounts  (this  yellow  hair  of  mine) 
'  So  weak  a  graft  on  Agnes  Este's  stock  ?  ' 

(Thus  went  he  on  with  something  of  a  mock) 
'  Wherefore  recoil,  then,  from  the  very  fate 

Conceded  you,  refuse  to  imitate 

Your  model  farther  ?     Este  long  since  left 

Being  mere  Este  :  as  a  blade  its  heft, 

Este  required  tlie  Pope  to  further  him : 

And  you,  the  Kaiser  —  whom  your  father's  whim 

Foregoes  or,  better,  never  shall  forego 

If  Palma  dare  pursue  what  Ecelo 

Commenced,  but  Ecelin  desists  from :  just 

As  Adelaide  of  Susa  could  intrust 

Her  donative,  —  her  Piedmont  given  the  Pope, 

Her  Alpine-pass  for  him  to  shut  or  ope 

'Twixt  France  and  Italy,  —  to  the  superb 

JNIatilda's  perfecting,  —  so,  lest  aught  curb 

Our  Adelaide's  great  counter-project  for 

Giving  her  Trentine  to  the  Emperor 

With  passage  here  from  Germany,  —  shall  you 

Take  it,  —  my  slender  plodding  talent,  too  !  ' 

—  Uroed  me  Taurello  with  his  half-smile. 


•&' 


As  Patron  of  the  scattered  family 
Conveyed  me  to  his  Mantua,  ke})t  in  bruit 


He 


250  SORDELLO 

Azzo's  alliances  and  Richard's  suit 
Until,  the  Kaiser  excommunicate, 
'  Nothing  remains,'  Taurello  said,  '  but  wait 
Some  rash  procedure  :  Palma  was  the  link. 
As  Agnes'  child,  between  us,  and  they  shrink 
From  losing  Palma :  judge  if  we  advance, 
Your  father's  method,  your  inheritance  I  ' 
That  day  I  was  betrothed  to  Boniface 
At  Padua  by  Taurello's  self,  took  place 
The  outrage  of  the  Ferrarese  :  again, 
That  day  I  sought  Verona  with  the  train 
Agreed  for,  —  by  Taurello's  policy 
Convicting  Richard  of  the  fault,  since  we 
Were  present  to  annul  or  to  confirm,  — 
Richard,  whose  patience  had  outstayed  its  term, 
Quitted  Verona  for  the  siege. 

"  And  now 
What  glory  may  engird  Sordello's  brow 
Through  this  ?     A  month  since  at  Oliero  slunk 
All  that  was  Ecelin  into  a  monk  ; 
But  how  could  Salinguerra  so  forget 
His  liege  of  thirty  years  as  grudge  even  yet 
One  effort  to  recover  him  ?     He  sent 
Forthwith  the  tidings  of  this  last  event 
To  Ecelin  —  declared  that  he,  despite 
The  recent  folly,  recognized  his  right 
To  order  Salinguerra  :  '  Should  he  wring 
Its  uttermost  advantage  out,  or  fling 
This  chance  away  ?     Or  were  his  sons  now  Head 
O'  the  House  ?  '    Through  me  Taurello's  missive  sped  ; 
My  father's  answer  will  by  me  return. 
Behold  !    '  For  him,'  he  writes,  '  no  more  concern 
With  strife  than,  for  his  children,  with  fresh  plots 
Of  Friedrich.      Old  engagements  out  he  blots 
For  aye :    Taurello  shall  no  more  subserve, 
Nor  Ecelin  impose.'     Lest  this  unnerve 
Taurello  at  this  juncture,  slack  his  grip 
Of  Richard,  suffer  the  occasion  slij),  — 
I,  in  his  sons'  default  (wlio,  mating  with 
Este,  forsake  Romano  as  the  frith 
Its  mainsea  for  the  firmland,  sea  makes  head 
Against)  I  stand.  Romano,  —  in  their  stead 
Assume  the  station  they  desert,  and  give 
Still,  as  the  Kaiser's  representative, 
Taurello  license  he  demands.     JNIidnight  — 
Morning  —  by  noon  tormorrow,  making  light 


SORDELLO'S   CIRCLE   COMPLETE  251 

Of  the  League's  issue,  we,  in  some  gay  weed 
Like  yours,  disguised  together,  may  precede 
The  arbitrators  to  Ferrara  :  reach 
Him,  let  Taurello's  noble  accents  teach 
The  rest !     Then  say  if  I  have  misconceived 
Your  destiny,  too  readily  believed 
The  Kaiser's  cause  your  own  !  " 

And  Palma  's  fled. 
Though  no  affirmative  disturbs  the  head, 
A  dying  lanij)-flame  sinks  and  rises  o'er, 
Like  the  alighted  planet  Pollux  wore, 
Until,  morn  breaking,  he  resolves  to  be 
Gate-vein  of  this  heart's  blood  of  Lombardy, 
Soul  of  this  body  —  to  wield  this  aggregate 
Of  souls  and  bodies,  and  so  conquer  fate 
Though  he  should  live  —  a  centre  of  disgust 
Even  —  apart,  core  of  the  outward  crust 
He  vivifies,  assimilates.     For  thus 
I  bring  Sordello  to  the  rapturous 
Exclaim  at  the  crowd's  cry,  because  one  round 
Of  life  was  quite  accomplished ;  and  he  found 
Not  only  that  a  soul,  whate'er  its  might, 
Is  insufficient  to  its  own  delig-ht. 
Both  in  corporeal  organs  and  in  skill 
By  means  of  such  to  body  forth  its  Will  — 
And,  after,  insufficient  to  apprise 
Men  of  that  Will,  oblige  them  recognize 
The  Hid  by  the  Revealed  —  but  that,  the  last 
Nor  lightest  of  the  struggles  overpast. 
His  Will,  bade  abdicate,  which  would  not  void 
The  throne,  might  sit  there,  suffer  be  enjoyed 
Mankind,  a  varied  and  divine  array 
Incapable  of  homage,  the  first  way. 
Nor  fit  to  render  incidentally 
Tribute  connived  at,  taken  by  the  by. 
In  joys.     If  thus  with  warrant  to  rescind 
The  ignominious  exile  of  mankind  — 
Whose  proper  service,  ascertained  intact 
As  yet,  (to  be  by  him  themselves  made  act. 
Not  watch  Sordello  acting  each  of  them) 
Was  to  secure  —  if  the  true  diadem 
Seemed  imminent  while  our  Sordello  drank 
The  wisdom  of  that  golden  Palma,  —  thank 
Verona's  Lady  in  her  citadel 
Founded  by  Gaulish  Brennus,  legends  tell : 
And  truly  when  she  left  him,  the  sun  reared 


252  SORDELLO 

A  head  like  the  first  clamberer's  that  j)eered 

A-top  the  Capitol,  his  face  on  flame 

AYith  triumph,  triumphing  till  Manliiis  came. 

Nor  slight  too  much  my  rhymes  —  that  spring,  dispread, 

Dispart,  disperse,  lingering  overhead 

Like  an  escape  of  angels  !     Rather  say, 

My  transcendental  platan  !  mounting  gay 

(An  archimage  so  courts  a  novice-queen) 

With  tremulous  silvered  trunk,  whence  branches  sheen 

Laugh  out,  thick-foliaged  next,  a-shiver  soon 

With  colored  buds,  then  glowing  like  the  moon 

One  mild  flame,  —  last  a  pause,  a  burst,  and  all 

Her  ivory  limbs  are  smothered  by  a  fall, 

Bloom-flinders  and  fruit-sparkles  and  leaf-dust, 

Ending  the  weird  work  prosecuted  just 

For  her  amusement ;  he  decrepit,  stark, 

Dozes  ;  her  uncontrolled  delight  may  mark 

Apart  — 

Yet  not  so,  surely  never  so  ! 
Only,  as  good  my  soul  were  suffered  go 
O'er  the  lagune  :  forth  fare  thee,  put  aside  — 
Entrance  thy  synod,  as  a  god  may  glide 
Out  of  the  world  he  fills,  and  leave  it  mute 
For  myriad  ages  as  we  men  compute, 
Returning  into  it  without  a  break 
O'  the  consciousness  I     They  sleep,  and  I  awake 
O'er  the  lagune,  being  at  Venice. 

Note, 
In  just  such  songs  as  P^glamor  (say)  wrote 
With  heart  and  soul  and  strength,  for  he  believed 
Himself  achieving  all  to  be  achieved 
By  singer  —  in  such  songs  you  find  alone 
Comjileteness,  judge  the  song  and  singer  one. 
And  either  purpose  answered,  his  in  it 
Or  its  in  him  :  while  from  true  works  (to  wit 
Sordello's  dream-performances  tliat  will 
Be  never  more  than  dreamed)  escapes  there  still 
Some  proof,  the  singer's  proper  life  was  'neath 
The  life  his  song  exhibits,  this  a  sheath 
To  that ;  a  passion  and  a  knowledge  far 
Transcending  these,  majestic  as  they  are. 
Smouldered  ;  his  lay  was  but  an  episode 
In  the  bard's  life  :  which  evidence  you  owed 
To  some  slight  weariness,  some  looking-off 
Or  start-away.     The  childish  skit  or  scoff 
In  "  Charlemagne,"  (his  poem,  dreamed  divine 


THE  POET    WATCHES  HIS   OWN  LIFE         253 

In  every  point  except  one  silly  line 

About  the  restiff  daughters)  —  what  may  lurk 

In  that  ?     "■  My  life  connnenced  before  this  work," 

(So  I  interpret  the  significance 

Of  the  bard's  start  aside  and  look  askance)  — 
"  My  life  continues  after  :  on  I  fare 

With  no  more  stopping,  possibly,  no  care 

To  note  the  undercurrent,  the  why  and  how, 

Where,  when,  o'  the  deeper  life,  as  thus  just  now. 

liut,  silent,  shall  I  cease  to  live  ?     Alas 

For  you  !  who  sigh,  '  AVhen  shall  it  come  to  pass 

AVe  read  that  story  ?     How  will  he  compress 

The  future  gains,  his  life's  true  business, 

Into  the  better  lay  which  —  that  one  flout, 

Howe'er  inopportune  it  be,  lets  out  — 

Engrosses  him  already,  though  professed 

To  meditate  with  us  eternal  rest. 

And  partnershij)  in  all  his  life  has  found  ? '  " 

'T  is  but  a  sailor's  promise,  weather-bound : 
"  Strike  sail,  slip  cable,  here  the  bark  be  moored 

For  once,  the  awning  stretched,  the  poles  assured  ! 

Noontide  above  ;  except  the  wave's  crisp  dash, 

Or  buzz  of  colibri,  or  tortoise'  splash. 

The  margin  's  silent :  out  with  every  spoil 

Made  in  our  tracking,  coil  by  mighty  coil, 

Tliis  serpent  of  a  river  to  his  head 

I'  the  midst !     Admire  each  treasure,  as  we  spread 

The  bank,  to  help  us  tell  our  history 

Aright :  give  ear,  endeavor  to  descry 

The  groves  of  giant  rushes,  how  they  grew 

Like  demons'  endlong  tresses  we  sailed  through, 

What  mountains  yawned,  forests  to  give  us  vent 

Opened,  each  dolefid  side,  yet  on  we  went 

Till  .  .   .  may  that  beetle  (shake  your  cap)  attest 

The  si)ringing  of  a  land-wind  from  the  West !  " 
^—  AVherefore  ?     Ah  yes,  you  frolic  it  to-day  1 

To-morrow,  and,  the  pageant  moved  away 

Down  to  the  poorest  tent-pole,  we  and  you 

Part  company  :  no  other  may  pursue 

Eastward  your  voyage,  be  informed  what  fate 

Intends,  if  triumph  or  decline  await 

The  tempter  of  the  everlasting  steppe. 
I  muse  this  on  a  ruined  palace-step 

At  Venice  :  why  should  I  break  off,  nor  sit 

Longer  upon  my  step,  exhaust  the  fit 

England  gave  birth  to  ?     Who  's  adorable 


254  SOllDELLO 

Enough  reclaim  a no  Sordello's  "Will 

Alack  !  —  be  queen  to  me  ?     That  Bassanese 

Busied  among  her  smoking  fruit-boats  ?     These 

Perhaps  from  our  delicious  Asolo 

Who  twinkle,  pigeons  o'er  the  portico 

Not  prettier,  bind  June  lilies  into  sheaves 

To  deck  the  bridge-side  chapel,  dropping  leaves 

Soiled  by  their  own  loose  gold-meal  ?     Ah,  beneath 

The  cool  arch  stoops  she,  brownest  cheek  !     Her  wreath 

Endures  a  month  —  a  half  month  —  if  I  make 

A  queen  of  her,  continue  for  her  sake 

Sordello's  story  ?     Nay,  that  Paduan  girl 

Splashes  with  barer  legs  where  a  live  whirl 

In  the  dead  black  Giudecca  proves  sea-weed 

Driftmg  has  sucked  down  three,  four,  all  indeed 

Save  one  pale-red  stripe,  pale-blue  turbaned  post 

For  gondolas. 

You  sad  dishevelled  ghost 
That  pluck  at  me  and  point,  are  you  advised 
I  breathe  ?     Let  stay  those  girls  (e'en  her  disguised 
—  Jewels  i'  the  locks  that  love  no  crownet  like 
Their  native  field-buds  and  the  green  wheat  spike, 
So  fair  !  —  who  left  this  end  of  June's  turmoil. 
Shook  off,  as  might  a  lily  its  gold  soil, 
Pomp,  save  a  foolish  gem  or  two,  and  free 
In  dream,  came  join  the  peasants  o'er  the  sea.) 
Look  they  too  happy,  too  tricked  out  ?     Confess 
There  is  such  niggard  stock  of  happiness 
To  share,  that,  do  one's  uttermost,  dear  wretch. 
One  labors  ineffectually  to  stretch 
It  o'er  you  so  that  mother  and  children,  both 
May  equitably  flaunt  the  sumpter-cloth ! 
Divide  the  robe  yet  farther  :  be  content 
With  seeing  just  a  score  pre-eminent 
Through  shreds  of  it,  acknowledged  happy  wights. 
Engrossing  what  should  furnish  all,  by  rights  ! 
Foi",  tliese  in  evidence,  you  clearlier  claim 
A  like  garb  for  the  rest,  —  grace  all,  the  same 
As  these  my  peasants.     I  ask  youth  and  strength 
And  health  for  each  of  you,  not  more  —  at  length 
Grown  wise,  who  asked  at  home  that  the  whole  race 
Might  add  the  spirit's  to  the  body's  grace, 
And  all  be  dizened  out  as  chiefs  and  bards. 
But  in  this  magic  weather  one  discards 
Much  old  requirement.     Venice  seems  a  type 
Of  Life  —  'twixt  blue  and  blue  extends,  a  strif)e, 


YOUTH  INSTIGATES   TO    TASKS  LIKE    THIS     255 

As  Life,  the  somewhat,  hangs  'twixt  nought  and  nought : 

'T  is  Venice,  and  't  is  Life  —  as  good  you  sought 

To  spare  me  tiie  Fia/za's  slippery  stone 

Or  keep  me  to  the  unclioked  canals  alone, 

As  hinder  Life  the  evil  with  the  good 

Which  make  up  Living,  rightly  understood. 

Only,  do  finish  something !      Peasants,  queens, 

Take  them,  made  happy  by  whatever  means. 

Parade  them  for  the  common  credit,  vouch 

That  a  luckless  residue,  we  send  to  crouch 

In  corners  out  of  sight,  was  just  as  framed 

For  liapjjiness,  its  portion  might  have  claimed 

As  well,  and  so,  obtaining  joy,  had  stalked 

Fastuous  as  any  !  —  such  my  project,  balked 

Already  ;  I  hardly  venture  to  adjust 

The  first  rags,  when  you  find  me.     To  mistrust 

Me  !  —  nor  unreasonably.     You,  no  doubt, 

Have  the  true  knack  of  tiring  suitors  out 

With  those  thin  lips  on  tremble,  lashless  eyes 

Inveterately  tear-shot  —  there,  be  wise, 

Mistress  of  mine,  there,  there,  as  if  I  meant 

You  insult !  —  shall  your  friend  (not  slave)  be  shent 

For  speaking  home  ?     Beside,  care-bit  erased 

Broken-up  beauties  ever  took  my  taste 

Supremely  ;  and  I  love  you  more,  far  more 

Than  her  I  looked  should  foot  Life's  temple-floor. 

Years  ago,  leagues  at  distance,  when  and  where 

A  whisper  came,  "  Let  others  seek  !  —  thy  care 

Is  found,  thy  life's  provision  ;  if  thy  race 

Should  be  thy  mistress,  and  into  one  face 

The  many  faces  crowd  ?  "     Ah,  had  I,  judge, 

Or  no,  your  secret  ?     Rough  apparel  —  grudge 

All  ornaments  save  tag  or  tassel  worn 

To  hint  we  are  not  thoroughly  forlorn  — 

Slouch  lionnet,  unloop  mantle,  careless  go 

Alone  (that 's  saddest,  but  it  must  be  so) 

Through  Venice,  sing  now  and  now  glance  aside, 

Aught  desultory  or  undignified,  — 

Then,  ravishingest  lady,  will  you  pass 

Or  not  each  formidable  group,  the  mass 

Before  the  Basilic  (that  feast  gone  by, 

God's  great  day  of  the  Corpus  Domini) 

And,  wistfully  foregoing  proper  men, 

Come  timid  up  to  me  for  alms  ?     And  then 

The  luxury  to  hesitate,  feign  do 

Some  unexampled  grace  I  —  when,  whom  but  you 


256  SORDELLO 

Dare  I  bestow  your  own  upon  ?     And  hear 

Further  before  you  say,  it  is  to  sneer 

I  call  you  ravishing  ;  lor  I  regret 

Little  that  she,  whose  early  foot  was  set 

Forth  as  she  'd  plant  it  on  a  pedestal, 

Now,  i'  the  silent  city,  seems  to  fall 

Toward  me  —  no  wreath,  only  a  lip's  unrest 

To  quiet,  surcharged  eyelids  to  be  pressed 

Dry  of  their  tears  upon  my  bosom.     Strange 

Such  sad  chance  should  produce  in  thee  such  change, 

My  love  !     Warped  souls  and  bodies  !  yet  God  spoke 

Of  right-hand,  foot  and  eye  —  selects  our  yoke, 

Sordello,  as  your  poetship  may  find  ! 

So,  sleep  upon  my  shoulder,  child,  nor  mind 

Their  foolish  talk  ;  we  '11  manage  reinstate 

Your  old  worth  ;  ask  moreover,  when  they  prate 

Of  evil  men  past  hope,  "  Don't  each  contrive, 

Despite  the  evil  you  abuse,  to  live  ?  — 

Keeping,  each  losel,  through  a  maze  of  lies, 

His  own  conceit  of  truth?  to  which  he  hies 

By  obscure  windings,  tortuous,  if  you  will, 

But  to  himself  not  inaccessible  ; 

He  sees  truth,  and  his  lies  are  for  the  crowd 

Who  cannot  see  ;  some  fancied  right  allowed 

His  vilest  wrong,  empowered  the  fellow  clutch 

One  pleasure  from  a  multitude  of  such 

Denied  him."     Then  assert,  "  All  men  appear 

To  think  all  better  than  themselves,  by  here 

Trusting  a  crowd  they  wrong ;   but  really,"  say, 

"  All  men  think  all  men  stupider  than  they. 
Since,  save  themselves,  no  other  comprehends 
The  complicated  scheme  to  make  amends 
—  Evil,  the  scheme  by  which,  through  Ignorance, 
Good  labors  to  exist."     A  slight  advance,  —  - 
Merely  to  find  the  sickness  you  die  through. 
And  nought  beside  !  but  if  one  can't  eschew 
One's  portion  in  the  common  lot,  at  least 
One  can  avoid  an  ignorance  increased 
Tenfold  by  dealing  out  hint  after  hint 
How  nought  were  like  dispensing  without  stint 
The  water  of  life  —  so  easy  to  dispense 
Beside,  when  one  has  probed  the  centre  whence 
Commotion  's  born  —  could  tell  you  of  it  all ! 

"  —  Meantime,  just  meditate  my  madrigal 
O'  the  mugwort  that  conceals  a  dewdrop  safe !  " 
What,  dullard  ?  we  and  you  in  smothery  chafe. 


LET   Till':   POET    'TAKE   lUS    OWN  PART      2bl 

Babes,  baldlieads,  stumbled  thus  far  into  Zin 
Tiie  Horrid,  getting  neither  out  nor  in, 
A  hungry  sun  above  us,  sands  that  bung 
Our  throats,  —  each  dromedary  lolls  a  tongue, 
Eaeli  camel  churns  a  sick  and  frothy  chap, 
And  you,  'twixt  tales  of  Potiphar's  mishap, 
And  sonnets  on  the  earliest  ass  that  spoke, 
—  Remark,  you  wonder  any  one  needs  choke 
With  founts  about !     Potsherd  him,  Gibeonites  ! 
While  awkwartUy  enough  your  Moses  smites 
The  rock,  though  he  forego  his  Promised  Land 
Thereby,  have  Satan  claim  his  carcass,  and 
Figure  as  Metaphysic  Poet  .   .  .  ah, 
Mark  ye  the  dim  first  oozings  ?     Meribah  ! 
Then,  quaffing  at  the  fount  my  courage  gained, 
Recall  —  not  that  I  prompt  ye  —  who  explained  .  .  . 
"  Presumptuous  !  "  interrupts  one.     You,  not  I 
'T  is,  brother,  marvel  at  and  magnify 
Such  office  :  "•  office,"  quotlia  ?  can  we  get 
To  the  beginning  of  the  office  yet  ? 
What  do  we  here  ?  simjjly  experiment 
Each  on  the  other's  power  and  its  intent 
When  elsewhere  tasked,  —  if  this  of  mine  were  trucked 
For  yours  to  cither's  good,  —  we  watch  construct. 
In  short,  an  engine  :  with  a  finished  one, 
What  it  can  do,  is  all,  —  nought,  how  't  is  done. 
But  this  of  ours  yet  in  probation,  dusk 
A  kernel  of  strano^e  wheelwork  throuo'h  its  husk 
Grows  into  shape  by  quarters  and  by  halves  ; 
Remark  this  tooth's  sj^ring,  wonder  what  that  valve's 
Fall  bodes,  jDresume  each  faculty's  device. 
Make  out  each  other  more  or  less  precise  — 
The  scope  of  the  whole  engine  's  to  be  proved ; 
We  die :  which  means  to  say,  the  whole  's  removed, 
Dismounted  wheel  by  wheel,  this  complex  gin,  — 
To  be  set  up  anew  elsewhere,  begin 
A  task  indeed,  but  with  a  clearer  clime 
Than  the  murk  lodgment  of  our  building-time. 
And  then,  I  grant  you,  it  behoves  forget 
How  't  is  done  —  all  that  must  amuse  us  yet 
So  long :  and,  while  you  turn  upon  your  heel. 
Pray  that  I  be  not  busy  slitting  steel 
Or  shredding  brass,  camped  on  some  virgin  shore 
Under  a  cluster  of  fresh  stars,  before 
I  name  a  tithe  o'  the  wheels  I  trust  to  do  ! 
So  occuj^ied,  then,  are  we  :  hitherto, 


258  SORDELLO 

At  present,  and  a  weary  while  to  come, 
The  office  of  ourselves,  —  nor  blind  nor  dumb, 
And  seeing  somewhat  of  man's  state,  —  has  been, 
For  the  worst  of  us,  to  say  they  so  have  seen ; 
For  the  better,  what  it  was  they  saw  ;  the  best 
Impart  the  gift  of  seeing  to  the  rest : 
"  So  that  I  glance,"  says  such  an  one,  "  around, 
And  there  's  no  face  but  I  can  read  profound 
Disclosures  in  ;  this  stands  for  hope,  that  —  fear. 
And  for  a  sj)eech,  a  deed  in  proof,  look  here  ! 
'  Stoop,  else  the  strings  of  blossom,  where  the  nuts 
O'erarch,  wll  blind  thee  !      Said  I  not  ?     She  shuts 
Both  eyes  this  time,  so  close  the  hazels  meet ! 
Thus,  prisoned  in  the  Piombi,  I  repeat 
Events  one  rove  occasioned,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Puttingf  'twixt  me  and  madness  evermore 
Tliy  sweet  shape,  Zanze  I     Therefore  stoop !  ' 

'  That's  truth ! ' 
(Adjudge  you)  *the  incarcerated  youth 
Would  say  that  I  ' 

Youth  ?     Plara  the  bard  ?     Set  down 
That  Plara  spent  his  youth  in  a  grim  town 
Whose  cramped  ill-featured  streets  huddled  about 
The  minster  for  protection,  never  out 
Of  its  black  belfry's  shade  and  its  bells'  roar. 
The  brighter  shone  the  suburb,  —  all  the  more 
Ugly  and  absolute  that  shade's  reproof 
Of  any  chance  escape  of  joy,  —  some  roof. 
Taller  than  they,  allowed  the  rest  detect,  — 
Before  the  sole  permitted  laugh  (suspect 
AVho  could,  't  was  meant  for  laughter,  that  ploughed  cheek's 
Repulsive  gleam!)  when  the  sun  stopped  both  peaks 
Of  the  cleft  belfry  like  a  fiery  wedge, 
Then  sunk,  a  huge  flame  on  its  socket  edge, 
With  leavings  on  the  gray  glass  oriel-pane 
Ghastly  some  minutes  more.     No  fear  of  rain  — 
The  minster  minded  that !   in  heaps  the  dust 
Lay  everywhere.     This  town,  the  minster's  trust. 
Held  Plara ;  who,  its  denizen,  bade  hail 
In  twice  twelve  sonnets,  Tempe's  dewy  vale." 
"  '  P^xact  the  town,  the  minster  and  the  street ! '  " 
"  As  all  mirth  triumphs,  sadness  means  defeat : 
Lust  triumphs  and  is  gay,  Love  's  triumphed  o'er 
And  sad  :  but  Lucio  's  sad.     I  said  before, 
Love  's  sad,  not  Lucio  ;  one  who  loves  may  be 
As  gay  his  love  has  leave  to  hope,  as  he 


ONE  OUGHT  NOT  BLAME  BUT  PRAISE  THIS     250 

Downcast  that  lusts'  desire  escapes  the  springe  : 
'T  is  of  the  mood  itself  1  speak,  what  tinge 
Determines  it,  else  colorless,  —  or  mirth, 
Or  melancholy,  as  from  heaven  or  earth." 
"  '  Ay,  that 's  the  variation's  gist  I  '     Indeed  ? 
Thus  far  advanced  in  safety  then,  proceed! 
And  having  seen  too  what  I  saw,  be  bold 
And  next  encounter  what  I  do  behold 
(That 's  sure)  but  bid  you  take  on  trust  I  " 

Attack 
The  use  and  purpose  of  such  sights  ?     Alack, 
Not  so  unwisely  does  the  crowd  dispense 
On  Salinguerras  praise  in  preference 
To  the  Bordellos :  men  of  action,  these  ! 
Who,  seeing  just  as  little  as  you  please, 
Yet  turn  that  little  to  account,  —  engage 
With,  do  not  gaze  at,  —  carry  on,  a  stage, 
The  work  o'  the  world,  not  merely  make  report 
The  work  existed  ere  their  day  !     In  short. 
When  at  some  future  no-time  a  brave  band 
Sees,  using  what  it  sees,  then  shake  my  hand 
In  heaven,  my  brother  !     Meanwhile  where  's  the  hurt 
Of  keeping  the  Makers-see  on  the  alert, 
At  whose  defection  mortals  stare  aghast 
As  though  heaven's  bomiteous  windows  were  slammed  fast 
Incontinent  ?     Whereas  all  you,  beneath, 
Should  scowl  at,  curse  them,  bruise  lips,  break  their  teeth 
Who  ply  the  pullies.  for  neglecting  you : 
And  therefore  have  I  moulded,  made  anew 
A  Man,  and  give  him  to  be  turned  and  tried, 
Be  angry  with  or  pleased  at.     On  your  side. 
Have  ye  times,  places,  actors  of  your  own  ? 
Try  them  upon  Sordello  when  full-grown. 
And  then  —  ah  then  I     If  Hercules  first  parched 
His  foot  in  Egypt  only  to  be  marched 
A  sacrifice  for  Jove  with  pomp  to  suit. 
What  chance  have  I  ?     The  demigod  was  mute 
Till,  at  the  altar,  where  time  out  of  mind 
Such  guests  became  oblations,  chaplets  twined 
His  forehead  long  enough,  and  he  began 
Slaying  the  slayers,  nor  escaped  a  man. 
Take  not  affront,  my  gentle  audience  !   whom 
No  Hercules  shall  make  his  hecatomb. 
Believe,  nor  from  his  brows  your  chaplet  rend  — 
That 's  your  kind  suffrage,  yours,  my  patron-friend, 
Whose  oreat  verse  blares  unintermittent  on 


260  SORDELLO 

Like  your  own  trumpeter  at  Marathon,  — 
You  who,  Plataea  and  Salamis  being  scant, 
Put  up  with  ^tna  for  a  stimulant  — 
And  did  well,  I  acknowledged,  as  he  loomed 
Over  the  midland  sea  last  month,  presumed 
Long,  lay  demolished  in  the  blazing  West 
At  eve,  while  towards  him  tilting  cloudlets  pressed 
Like  Persian  ships  at  Salamis.     Friend,  wear 
A  crest  proud  as  desert  while  I  declare 
Had  I  a  flawless  ruby  fit  to  wring 
Tears  of  its  color  from  that  painted  king 
Who  lost  it,  I  would,  for  that  smile  which  went 
To  my  heart,  fling  it  in  the  sea,  content. 
Wearing  your  verse  in  place,  an  amulet 
Sovereign  against  all  passion,  wear  and  fret ! 
My  English  Eyebright,  if  you  are  not  glad 
That,  as  I  stopped  my  task  awhile,  the  sad 
Dishevelled  form,  wherein  I  put  mankind 
To  come  at  times  and  keep  my  pact  in  mind. 
Renewed  me,  —  hear  no  crickets  in  the  hedge, 
Nor  let  a  glowworm  spot  the  river's  edge 
At  home,  and  may  the  summer  showers  gush 
Without  a  warning  from  the  missel  thrush ! 
So,  to  our  business,  now  —  the  fate  of  such 
As  find  our  common  nature  —  overmuch 
Despised  because  restricted  and  unfit 
To  bear  the  burden  they  impose  on  it  — 
Cling  when  they  would  discard  it ;  craving  strength 
To  leap  from  the  allotted  world,  at  length 
They  do  leap,  — flounder  on  without  a  term, 
P^ach  a  god's  germ,  doomed  to  remain  a  germ 
In  unexpanded  infancy,  unless  .   .   . 
But  that 's  the  story  —  dull  enough,  confess  ! 
There  might  be  fitter  subjects  to  allure  ; 
Still,  neither  misconceive  my  portraiture 
Nor  undervalue  its  adornments  (piaint : 
What  seems  a  fiend  perchance  may  prove  a  saint. 
Ponder  a  story  ancient  pens  transmit, 
Then  say  if  you  condemn  me  or  acquit. 
John  the  Beloved,  banished  Antioch 
For  Patmos,  bade  collectively  his  flock 
Farewell,  but  set  apart  the  closing  eve 
To  comfort  those  his  exile  most  would  grieve, 
He  know  :  a  touching  spectacle,  that  house 
In  motion  to  receive  him !     Xanthus'  spouse 


MEN  SUFFERED   WHILE  PARTIES  STROVE     2'Jl 

You  missed,  made  panther's  meat  a  month  since ;  but 
Xanthus  himself  (his  nephew  't  was,  they  shut 
'Twixt  boards  and  sawed  asunder),  Polycarp, 
Soft  Ciiariole,  next  year  no  wheel  could  warp 
To  swear  by  Caesar's  fortune,  with  the  rest 
Were  ranged ;  through  whom  the  gray  disciple  pressed, 
Busily  blessing  right  and  left,  just  sto2)2jed 
To  pat  one  infant's  curls,  the  hangman  cropped 
Soon  after,  reached  the  portal.      On  its  hinge 
The  door  turns  and  he  enters  :   what  quick  twinge 
Ruins  the  smiling  mouth,  those  wide  eyes  fix 
Whereon,  why  like  some  spectral  candlestick's 
Branch  the  disciple's  arms  ?     Dead  swooned  he,  woke 
Anon,  heaved  sigh,  made  shift  to  gasp,  heart-broke, 
"  Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan  !     Have  I  toiled 
To  no  more  purpose  ?     Is  the  gospel  foiled 
Here  too,  and  o'er  my  son's,  my  Xanthus'  hearth. 
Portrayed  with  sooty  garb  and  features  swartli  — 
Ah  Xanthus,  am  I  to  thy  roof  beguiled 
To  see  the  —  the  —  the  Devdl  domiciled  ?  " 
Whereto  sobbed  Xanthus,  "  Father,  't  is  yourself 
Installed,  a  limning  which  our  utmost  pelf 
Went  to  procure  against  to-morrow's  loss  ; 
And  that 's  no  twy-prong,  but  a  pastoral  cross, 
You  're  painted  with  !  " 

His  puckered  brows  unfold  — 
And  you  shall  hear  Sordello's  story  told. 


BOOK  THE  FOURTH. 

Meantime  Ferrara  lay  in  rueful  case  ; 

The  lady-city,  for  whose  sole  embrace 

Her  pair  of  suitors  struggled,  felt  their  arms 

A  brawny  mischief  to  the  fragile  charms 

They  tugged  for  —  one  discovering  that  to  twist 

Her  tresses  twice  or  thrice  about  his  wrist 

Secured  a  ])oint  of  vantage  —  one,  how  best 

He  'd  parry  that  by  planting  in  her  breast 

His  elbow  spike  —  each  party  too  intent 

For  noticing,  howe'er  the  battle  went. 

The  conqueror  would  but  have  a  corpse  to  kiss. 

May  Boniface  be  duly  damned  for  this !  " 

—  Howled  some  old  Ghibellin,  as  up  he  turned, 


262  SORDELLO 

From  the  wet  heap  of  rubbish  where  they  burned 
His  house,  a  little  skull  with  dazzling  teeth  : 

"  A  boon,  sweet  Christ  —  let  Salinguerra  seethe 
In  hell  forever,  Christ,  and  let  myself 
Be  there  to  laugh  at  him  !  "  —  moaned  some  young  Guelf 
Stumbling  upon  a  shrivelled  hand  nailed  fast 
To  the  charred  lintel  of  the  doorway,  last 
His  father  stood  within  to  bid  him  speed. 
The  thoroughfares  were  overrun  with  weed 
—  Docks,  quitchgrass,  loathy  mallows  no  man  plants. 

The  stranger,  none  of  its  inhabitants 
Crept  out  of  doors  to  taste  fresh  air  again, 
And  ask  the  purpose  of  a  splendid  train 
Admitted  on  a  morning  ;   every  town 
Of  the  East  League  was  come  by  envoy  down 
To  treat  for  Richard's  ransom  :  here  you  saw 
The  Vicentine,  here  snowy  oxen  draw 
The  Paduan  carroch,  its  vermilion  cross 
On  its  white  field.     A-tiptoe  o'er  the  fosse 
Looked  Legate  Montelungo  wistfully 
After  the  flock  of  steeples  he  might  spy 
In  Este's  time,  gone  (doubts  he)  long  ago 
To  mend  the  ramparts  :  sure  the  laggards  know 
The  Pope  's  as  good  as  here  !     They  paced  the  streets 
More  soberly.     At  last,  "  Taurello  greets 
The  League,"  announced  a  pursuivant, —  "  will  match 
Its  courtesy,  and  labors  to  dispatch 
At  earliest  Tito,  Friedrich's  Pretor,  sent 
On  pressing  matters  from  his  post  at  Trent, 
With  Mainard  Count  of  Tyrol,  —  simply  waits 
Their  going  to  receive  the  delegates." 

"Tito  !  "     Our  delegates  exchanged  a  glance. 
And.  keeping  the  main  way,  admired  askance 
The  lazy  engines  of  outlandish  birth. 
Couched  like  a  king  each  on  its  bank  of  earth  — 
Arbalist,  manganel  and  catapult ; 
AVhlle  stationed  by,  as  waiting  a  result, 
Lean  silent  eranp-s  of  mercenaries  ceased 
Working  to  watch  the  strangers.     "  This,  at  least, 
Were  better  si)ared  ;  he  scarce  presumes  gainsay 
The  League's  decision  !     Get  our  friend  away 
And  profit  for  the  future  :  how  else  teach 
Fools  't  is  not  safe  to  stray  within  claw's  reach 
Ere  Salinguerra's  final  gas])  be  blown  ? 
Those  mere  convulsive  scratches  find  the  bone. 
Who  bade  him  bloody  the  spent  osprey's  nare  ?  " 


HOW  GUELFS   CRITICISE   GHIBELLIN  WORK    263 

The  carrochs  halted  in  the  public  square. 

Pennons  of  every  blazon  once  a-flaunt, 

Men  prattled,  freelier  that  the  crested  gaunt 

White  ostrich  with  a  horse-shoe  in  her  beak 

Was  missing,  and  whoever  chose  might  speak 
"  Ecelin  "  boldly  out :   so,  —  "  Ecelin 

Needed  his  wife  to  swallow  half  the  sin 

And  sickens  by  himself  :  the  devil's  whelp, 

He  styles  his  son,  dwindles  away,  no  help 

From  conserves,  your  fine  triple-curded  froth 

Of  virgin's  blood,  your  Venice  viper-broth  — 

Eh  ?  Jubilate  !  "  —  "  Peace  !  no  little  word 

You  utter  here  that 's  not  distinctly  heard 

Up  at  Oliero  :  he  was  absent  sick 

When  we  besieged  Bassano  —  who,  i'  the  thick 

O'  the  work,  perceived  the  progress  Azzo  made, 

Like  Ecelin,  through  his  witch  Adelaide  ? 

She  managed  it  so  well  that,  night  by  night, 

At  their  bed-foot  stood  up  a  soldier-sprite, 

First  fresh,  pale  by-and-by  without  a  wound, 

And,  when  it  came  with  eyes  filmed  as  in  s  wound. 

They  knew  the  place  was  taken."  —  "  Ominous 

That  Ghibellins  should  get  what  cautelous 

Old  Redbeard  sought  from  Azzo's  sire  to  wrench 

Vainly  ;  Saint  George  contrived  his  town  a  trench 

O'  the  marshes,  an  impermeable  bar." 
"  —  Young  Ecelin  is  meant  the  tutelar 

Of  Padua,  rather  ;  veins  embrace  upon 

His  hand  like  Brenta  and  Bacchiglion." 

What  now  ?  —  "'  The  founts  !    God's  bread,  touch  not  a  plank  ! 

A  crawling  hell  of  carrion  —  every  tank 

Choke  full  I  —  found  out  just  now  to  Cino's  cost  — 

The  same  who  gave  Taurello  up  for  lost, 

And,  making  no  account  of  fortune's  freaks, 

Refused  to  budge  from  Padua  then,  but  sneaks 

Back  now  with  Concorezzi  —  'faith  !   they  drag 

Their  carroch  to  San  Vitale,  plant  the  flag 

On  his  own  palace,  so  adroitly  razed 

He  knew  it  not ;  a  sort  of  Guelf  folk  gazed 

And  laughed  apart ;  Cino  disliked  their  air  — 

Must  pluck  up  spirit,  show  he  does  not  care  — 

Seats  himself  on  the  tank's  edge  —  will  begin 

To  hum,  za,  s<x,  Cavaler  Ecelin  — 

A  silence ;  he  gets  warmer,  clinks  to  chime, 

Now  both  feet  plough  the  ground,  deeper  each  time, 

At  last,  za,  za,  and  up  with  a  fierce  kick 


264  SORDELLO 

Comes  his  own  mother's  face  caught  by  the  thick 
Gray  luiir  about  his  spur  !  " 

Which  means,  they  lift 
The  covering,  Salinguerra  made  a  shift 
To  stretch  upon  the  truth  ;  as  well  avoid 
Further  disclosures  ;  leave  them  thus  employed. 
Our  dropjjing  Autumn  morning  clears  apace, 
And  poor  Ferrara  puts  a  softened  face 
On  her  misfortunes.     Let  us  scale  this  tall 
Huge  foursquare  line  of  red  brick  garden-wall 
Bastioned  within  by  trees  of  every  sort 
On  three  sides,  slender,  spreading,  long  and  short ; 
Each  grew  as  it  contrived,  the  poplar  ramped, 
The  fig-tree  reared  itself,  —  but  stark  and  cramped, 
Made  fools  of,  like  tamed  lions  :  whence,  on  the  edge, 
Running  'twixt  trunk  and  trunk  to  smooth  one  ledge 
Of  shade,  were  shrubs  inserted,  warp  and  woof, 
Which  smothered  up  that  variance.      Scale  the  roof 
Of  solid  tops,  and  o'er  the  sloj^e  you  slide 
Down  to  a  grassy  space  level  and  wide, 
Here  and  there  dotted  with  a  tree,  but  trees 
Of  rarer  leaf,  each  foreigner  at  ease. 
Set  by  itself  :  and  in  the  centre  spreads. 
Borne  upon  three  uneasy  leopards'  heads, 
A  laver,  broad  and  shallow,  one  bright  spirt 
Of  water  bubbles  in.     The  walls  becjirt 
With  trees  leave  off  on  either  hand  ;  pursue 
Your  path  along  a  wondrous  avenue 
Those  walls  abut  on,  heaped  of  gleamy  stone, 
With  aloes  leering  everywhere,  gray-grown 
From  many  a  Moorish  summer  :  how  they  wind 
Out  of  the  fissures  I  likelier  to  bind 
The  building  than  those  rusted  cramps  which  drop 
Already  in  the  eating  sunshine.     Stop, 
You  fleeting  shapes  above  there  !     Ah,  the  pride 
Or  else  despair  of  the  whole  country-side ! 
A  range  of  statues,  swarming  o'er  with  wasps, 
God,  goddess,  woman,  man,  the  Greek  rough-rasps 
In  crumbling  Naples  marble  —  meant  to  look 
Like  those  Messina  marbles  Constance  took 
Delight  in,  or  Taurello's  self  conveyed 
To  Mantua  for  his  mistress,  Adelaide, 
A  certain  font  with  caryatides 
Since  cloistered  at  Goito  ;  only,  these 
Are  up  and  doing,  not  abashed,  a  troop 
Able  to  right  themselves  —  who  see  you,  stoop 


SORDELLO  PONDERS  ALL   SEEN  AND  HEARD     265 

O'  the  instant  after  you  their  arms !     Unpkicked 

By  tliis  or  that,  you  pass  ;  for  they  conduct 

To  terrace  raised  on  terrace,  and,  between, 

Creatures  of  brighter  mould  and  braver  mien 

Than  any  yet,  the  choicest  of  the  Isle 

No  doubt.     Here,  left  a  sullen  breathing-while, 

Up-gathered  on  himself  the  Fighter  stood 

For  his  last  light,  and,  wi})ing  treacherous  blood 

Out  of  the  eyelids  just  held  ope  beneath 

Those  shading  fingers  in  their  iron  sheath. 

Steadied  his  strengths  amid  the  buzz  and  stir 

Of  the  dusk  hideous  amphitheatre 

At  the  announcement  of  his  over-match 

To  wind  the  day's  diversion  up,  dispatch 

The  pertinacious  Gaul :  while,  limbs  one  heap, 

The  Slave,  no  breath  in  her  round  mouth,  watched  leap 

Dart  after  dart  forth,  as  her  hero's  car 

Clove  dizzily  the  solid  of  the  war 

—  Let  coil  about  his  knees  for  jDride  in  him. 

We  reach  the  farthest  terrace,  and  the  grim 

San  Pietro  Palace  stops  us. 

Such  the  state 
Of  Salinguerra's  plan  to  emulate 
Sicilian  marvels,  that  his  girlish  wife 
Retrude  still  might  lead  her  ancient  life 
In  her  new  home  :  whereat  enlarged  so  much 
Neighbors  upon  the  novel  j^rincely  touch 
He  took,  —  who  here  imjjrisons  Boniface. 
Here  must  the  Envoys  come  to  sue  for  grace  ; 
And  here,  emerging  from  the  labyrinth 
Below,  Sordello  paused  beside  the  plinth 
Of  the  door-pillar.  , 

He  had  really  left 
Verona  for  the  cornfields  (a  poor  theft 
From  the  morass)  where  Este's  camp  was  made. 
The  Envovs'  march,  the  Leo-ate's  cavalcade  — 
All  had  been  seen  by  him,  but  scarce  as  when,  — 
Eao^er  for  cause  to  stand  aloof  from  men 
At  every  point  save  the  fantastic  tie 
Acknowledged  in  his  boyish  sophistry,  — 
He  made  account  of  such.     A  crowd,  —  he  meant 
To  task  the  v/hole  of  it ;  each  part's  intent 
Concerned  him  therefore  :  and,  the  more  he  pried, 
The  less  became  Sordello  satisfied 
With  his  own  figure  at  the  moment.     Sought 
He  respite  from  his  task  ?     Descried  he  aught 


266  SORDELLO 

Novel  in  the  anticipated  sight 

Of  all  these  livers  upon  all  delight  ? 

This  phalanx,  as  of  myriad  points  combined, 

Whereby  he  still  had  imaged  the  mankind 

His  youth  was  passed  in  dreams  of  rivalling, 

His  age  — in  plans  to  prove  at  least  such  thing 

Had  been  so  dreamed,  —  which  now  he  must  impress 

With  his  own  will,  effect  a  happiness 

By  theirs,  —  supply  a  body  to  his  soul 

Thence,  and  become  eventually  whole 

With  them  as  he  had  hoped  to  be  without  — 

Made  these  the  mankind  he  once  raved  about  ? 

Because  a  few  of  them  were  notable, 

Should  all  be  figured  worthy  note  ?      As  well 

Expect  to  find  Taurello's  triple  line 

Of  trees  a  single  and  prodigious  pine. 

Real  pines  rose  here  and  there  ;   but,  close  among, 

Thrust  into  and  mixed  up  with  pines,  a  throng 

Of  shrubs,  he  saw,  —  a  nameless  common  sort 

O'erpast  in  dreams,  left  out  of  the  report 

And  hurried  into  corners,  or  at  best 

Admitted  to  be  fancied  like  the  rest. 

Reckon  that  morning's  proper  chiefs  —  liow  few  ! 

And  yet  the  people  grew,  the  people  grew, 

Grew  ever,  as  if  the  many  there  indeed, 

More  left  behind  and  most  who  should  succeed,  — 

Simply  in  virtue  of  their  mouths  and  eyes. 

Petty  enjoyments  and  huge  miseries,  — 

Mingled  with,  and  made  veritably  great 

Those  chiefs :  he  overlooked  not  Mainard's  state 

Nor  Concorezzi's  station,  but  instead 

Of  stopping  there,  each  dwindled  to  be  head 

Of  infinite  and  absent  Tyrolese 

Or  Paduans  ;  startling  all  the  more,  that  these 

Seemed  passive  and  disposed  of,  un cared  for, 

Yet  doubtless  on  the  Avhole  (like  Eglamor) 

Smiling ;  for  if  a  wealthy  man  decays 

And  out  of  store  of  robes  must  wear,  all  days, 

One  tattered  suit,  alike  in  sun  and  shade, 

'T  is  commonly  some  tarnished  gay  brocade 

Eit  for  a  feast-nicrht's  flourish  and  no  more  : 

Nor  otherwise  poor  Misery  from  her  store 

Of  looks  is  fain  upgather,  keep  unfurled 

For  common  wear  as  she  goes  through  the  world. 

The  faint  remainder  of  some  worn-out  smile 

Meant  for  a  feast-night's  service  merely.     While 


MEN  NOT  MACHINES  BUT  LIVING  THINGS    267 

Crowd  upon  crowd  rose  on  Sordello  thus,  — 

(Crowds  no  way  interfering-  to  discuss, 

Much  less  dispute,  life's  joys  with  one  employed 

In  envying  them,  —  or,  if  they  aught  enjoyed, 

Where  lingered  something  indefinable 

In  every  look  and  tone,  the  mirth  as  well 

As  woe,  that  fixed  at  once  his  estimate 

Of  the  result,  their  good  or  bad  estate)  — 

Old  memories  returned  with  new  effect : 

And  the  new  body,  ere  he  could  suspect. 

Cohered,  mankind  and  he  were  really  fused, 

The  new  self  seemed  imj^atient  to  be  used 

By  him,  but  utterly  another  way 

Than  that  anticipated  :   strange  to  say, 

They  were  too  much  below  him,  more  in  thrall 

Than  he,  the  adjunct  than  the  principal. 

What  booted  scattered  units  ?  —  here  a  mind 

And  there,  which  might  repay  his  own  to  find. 

And  stamp,  and  use  ?  —  a  few,  howe'er  august, 

If  all  the  rest  were  grovelling  in  the  dust  ? 

No  :  first  a  mighty  equilibrium,  sure, 

Should  he  establish,  privilege  procure 

For  all,  the  few  had  long  possessed  !     He  felt 

An  error,  an  exceeding  error  melt  — 

While  he  was  occupied  with  Mantuan  chants. 

Behoved  him  think  of  men,  and  take  their  wants. 

Such  as  he  now  distinguished  every  side. 

As  his  own  want  which  might  be  satisfied,  — 

And,  after  that,  think  of  rare  qualities 

Of  his  own  soul  demanding  exercise. 

It  folloAved  naturally,  through  no  claim 

On  their  part,  which  made  virtue  of  the  aim 

At  serving  them,  on  his,  —  that,  past  retrieve, 

He  felt  now  in  their  toils,  theirs,  —  nor  could  leave 

Wonder  how,  in  the  eagerness  to  rule. 

Impress  his  will  on  mankind,  he  (the  fool !) 

Had  never  even  entertained  the  thought 

That  this  his  last  arrangement  might  be  fraught 

With  incidental  good  to  them  as  well, 

And  that  mankind's  delight  would  help  to  swell 

His  own.     So,  if  he  sighed,  as  formerly 

Because  the  merry  time  of  life  must  fleet, 

'T  was  deeplier  now,  —  for  could  the  crowds  repeat 

Their  poor  experiences  ?     His  hand  that  shook 

Was  twice  to  be  deplored.     "  The  Legate,  look ! 

With  eyes,  like  fresh-blown  thrush-eggs  on  a  thread, 


268  SORDELLO 

Faint-blue  and  loosely  floating  in  his  head. 

Large  tongue,  moist  open  mouth  ;   and  this  long  ^vhile 

That  owner  of  the  idiotic  smile 

Serves  them !  " 

He  fortunately  saw  in  time 
His  fault  however,  and  since  the  office  prime 
Includes  the  secondary  —  best  accept 
Both  offices  :  Taurello,  its  adept, 
Could  teach  him  the  preparatory  one, 
And  how  to  do  what  he  had  fancied  done 
Long  previously,  ere  take  the  greater  task. 
How  render  first  these  people  happy  ?     Ask 
The  people's  friends :  for  there  must  be  one  good, 
One  way  to  it  —  the  Cause  !  — he  understood 
The  meaning  now  of  Palma  ;  why  the  jar 
Else,  the  ado,  the  trouble  wide  and  far 
Of  Guelfs  and  Ghibellins,  the  Lombard's  hope 
And  Rome's  despair  ?  —  'twixt  Emperor  and  Pope 
The  confused  shifting  sort  of  Eden  tale  — 
Still  hardihood  recurring,  still  to  fail  — 
That  foreign  interloping  fiend,  this  free 
And  native  overbrooding  deity  — 
Yet  a  dire  fascination  o'er  the  palms 
The  Kaiser  ruined,  troubling  even  the  calms 
Of  paradise  —  or,  on  the  other  hand, 
The  Pontiff,  as  the  Kaisers  understand, 
One  snake-like  cursed  of  God  to  love  the  ground, 
Whose  heavy  length  breaks  in  the  noon  profound 
Some  saving  tree  —  which  needs  the  Kaiser,  dressed 
As  the  dislodging 'angel  of  that  pest, 
Then  —  yet  that  pest  bedropped,  flat  head,  full  fold, 
With  coruscating  dower  of  dyes.      "  Behold 
The  secret,  so  to  speak,  and  master-spring 
0'  the  contest !  —  which  of  the  two  Powers  shall  bring 
Men  good  —  perchance  the  most  good  —  ay,  it  may 
Be  that !  —  the  question,  which  best  knows  the  way." 

And  hereupon  Count  IMainard  strutted  past 
Out  of  San  Pietro  ;  never  seemed  the  last 
Of  archers,  sllngers  :   and  our  friend  began 
To  recollect  strange  modes  of  serving  man, 
Arbalist,  catapult,  brake,  manganel. 
And  more.     "  This  way  of  theirs  may,  —  who  can  tell  ? 
Need  ])erfecting,"  said  he  :   "  let  all  be  solved 
At  once  !      Taurello  't  is,  the  task  devolved 
On  late  —  confront  Taurello  !  " 

And  at  last 


HE    WOULD  FAIN  HAVE  HELPED  MEN       269 

He  did  confront  him.     Scarcely  an  hour  past 

When  forth  Sordello  came,  okler  by  years 

Than  at  his  entry.      Unexampled  fears 

Oppressed  him,  and  he  staggered  otf,  blind,  mute 

And  deaf,  like  some  fresh-mutilated  brute, 

Into  Ferrara  —  not  the  empty  town 

That  morning  witnessed  :  he  went  up  and  down 

Streets  whence  the  veil  had  been  stripped  shred  by  shred, 

So  that,  in  place  of  huddhng  with  their  dead 

Indoors,  to  answer  Salinguerra's  ends. 

Its  folk  made  shift  to  crawl  forth,  sit  like  friends 

With  any  one.     A  woman  gave  him  choice 

Of  her  two  daughters,  the  infantile  voice 

Or  the  dimpled  knee,  for  half  a  chain,  his  tlii'oat 

Was  clasped  with ;  but  an  archer  knew  the  coat  — 

Its  blue  cross  and  eight  lilies,  —  bade  beware 

One  dogging  him  in  concert  with  the  pair 

Thouofh  thrumminof  on  the  sleeve  that  hid  his  knife. 

Night  set  in  early,  autumn  dews  were  rife. 

They  kindled  great  fires  while  the  Leaguers'  mass 

Began  at  every  carroch  —  he  must  pass 

Between  the  kneeling  people.     Presently 

The  carroch  of  Verona  caught  his  eye 

With  purple  trappings  ;  silently  he  bent 

Over  its  fire,  when  voices  violent 

Began,  "  Affirm  not  whom  the  youth  was  like 

That,  striking  from  the  porch,  I  did  not  strike 

Again  :  I  too  have  chestnut  hair  ;  my  kin 

Hate  Azzo  and  stand  up  for  Ecelin. 

Here,  minstrel,  drive  bad  thoughts  away  I      Sing  !     Take 

My  glove  for  guerdon  !  "     And  for  that  man's  sake 

He  turned  :   ''  A  song  of  Eglamor's  !  "  — scarce  named, 

When,  "  Our  Sordello's  rather !  "  —  all  exclaimed  ; 

"Is  not  Sordello  famousest  for  rhyme  ?  " 
He  had  been  happy  to  deny,  this  time,  — 
Profess  as  heretofore  the  aching  head 
And  failing  heart,  —  suspect  that  in  his  stead 
Some  true  Apollo  had  the  charge  of  them, 
Was  champion  to  reward  or  to  condemn, 
So  his  intolerable  risk  might  shift 
Or  share  itself ;  but  Naddo's  precious  gift 
Of  gifts,  he  owned,  be  certain  !     At  the  close  — 

"  I  made  that,"  said  he  to  a  youth  wlio  rose 
As  if  to  hear  :   't  was  Palma  through  the  band 
Conducted  him  in  silence  by  her  hand. 

Back  now  for  Salinguerra.     Tito  of  Trent 


270  SORDELLO 

Gave  place  to  Palma  and  her  friend ;  who  went 

In  turn  at  Montelungo's  visit  —  one 

After  the  other  Were  they  come  and  gone,  — 

These  spokesmen  for  the  Kaiser  and  the  Pope, 

This  incarnation  of  the  People's  hope, 

Sordello,  —  all  the  say  of  each  was  said 

And  Salingnerra  sat,  himself  instead 

Of  these  to  talk  with,  lingered  musing  yet. 

'T  was  a  drear  vast  presence-chamber  roughly  set 

In  order  for  the  morning's  use  ;   full  face, 

The  Kaiser's  ominous  sign-mark  had  first  place, 

The  crowned  grim  twy-necked  eagle,  coarsely-blacked 

With  ochre  on  the  naked  wall ;  nor  lacked 

Romano's  green  and  yellow  either  side  ; 

But  the  new  token  Tito  brought  had  tried 

The  Legate's  patience  —  nay,  if  Palma  knew 

What  Sahnguerra  almost  meant  to  do 

Until  the  sight  of  her  restored  his  lip 

A  certain  half -smile,  three  months'  chieftainship 

Had  banished  !     Afterward,  the  Legate  found 

No  change  in  him,  nor  asked  what  badge  he  wound 

And  unwound  carelessly.     Now  sat  the  Chief 

Silent  as  when  our  couple  left,  whose  brief 

Encounter  wrought  so  opportune  effect 

In  thoughts  he  summoned  not,  nor  would  reject. 

Though  time  't  was  now  if  ever,  to  pause  —  fix 

On  any  sort  of  ending :  wiles  and  tricks 

Exhausted,  judge!  his  charge,  the  crazy  town. 

Just  managed  to  be  hindered  crasliing  down  — 

His  last  sound  troops  ranged  —  care  observed  to  post 

His  best  of  the  maimed  soldiers  innermost  — 

So  much  was  plain  enough,  but  somehow  struck 

Him  not  before.     And  now  with  this  strange  luck 

Of  Tito's  news,  rewarding  his  address 

So  well,  what  thought  he  of  ?  —  how  the  success 

With  Friedrich's  rescript  there,  would  either  hush 

Old  Ecelin's  scruples,  bring  the  manly  flush 

To  his  young  son's  white  cheek,  or,  last,  exempt 

Himself  from  telling  what  there  was  to  tempt  ? 

No  :  that  this  minstrel  was  Romano's  last 

Servant  —  himself  the  first !     Could  he  contrast 

The  whole  !  —  that  minstrel's  thirty  years  just  spent 

In  doing  nought,  their  notablest  event 

This  morning's  journey  hither,  as  I  told  — 

Who  yet  was  lean,  outworn  and  really  old, 

A  stammering  awkward  man  that  scarce  dared  raise 


SALINGUEIiRA'S  PORTRAIT,  BODY  AND  SPIRIT     271 

His  eye  before  the  magisterial  gaze  — 

And  SaliiigueiTa  with  his  fears  and  hopes 

Of  sixty  years,  his  Emperors  and  Popes, 

Cares  and  contrivances,  yet,  you  woukl  say, 

'T  was  a  youth  nonchalantly  looked  away 

Through  tlie  embrasure  northward  o'er  the  sick 

Expostulating  trees  —  so  agile,  quick 

And  graceful  turned  the  head  on  the  broad  chest 

Encased  in  i)liant  steel,  his  constant  vest, 

AVhence  split  the  sun  off  in  a  spray  of  fire 

Across  the  room  ;  and,  loosened  of  its  tire 

Of  steel,  that  head  let  breathe  the  comely  brown 

Large  massive  locks  discolored  as  if  a  crown 

Encircled  them,  so  frayed  the  basnet  Avhere 

A  sharp  white  line  divided  clean  the  hair ; 

Glossy  above,  glossy  below,  it  swept 

Curling  and  fine  about  a  brow  thus  kept 

Calm,  laid  coat  upon  coat,  marble  and  sound  : 

This  was  the  mystic  mark  the  Tuscan  found. 

Mused  of.  turned  over  books  about.     Square-faced, 

No  lion  more  ;  two  vivid  eyes,  enchased 

In  hollows  filled  with  many  a  shade  and  streak 

Settling  from  the  bold  nose  and  bearded  cheek. 

Nor  might  the  half-smile  reach  them  that  deformed 

A  lip  supremely  perfect  else  —  unwarmed, 

Unwidened,  less  or  more;  indifferent 

Whether  on  trees  or  men  his  thoughts  were  bent, 

Thoughts  rarely,  after  all.  in  trim  and  train 

As  now  a  period  was  fulfilled  again  : 

Of  such,  a  series  made  his  life,  comj)ressed 

In  each,  one  story  serving  for  the  rest  — 

How  his  life-streams  rolling  arrived  at  last 

At  the  ban  ier,  w  hence,  were  it  once  overpast, 

They  would  emerge,  a  river  to  the  end,  — 

Gathered  themselves  up,  paused,  bade  fate  befriend, 

Took  the  leap,  hung  a  minute  at  the  height. 

Then  fell  back  to  oblivion  infinite : 

Therefore  he  smiled.     Beyond  stretched  garden-grounds 

Where  late  the  adversary,  breaking  bounds. 

Had  gained  him  an  occasion,  That  above, 

That  eagle,  testified  he  could  improve 

Effectually.     The  Kaiser's  symbol  lay 

Beside  his  rescript,  a  new  badge  by  w^ay 

Of  baldric ;  w  hile,  —  another  thing  that  marred 

Alike  emprise,  achievement  and  reward,  — 

Ecelin's  missive  was  conspicuous  too. 


272  SORDELLO 

What  past  life  did  those  flying  thoughts  pursue  ? 
As  his,  few  names  in  Mantua  half  so  old  ; 
But  at  Ferrara,  where  his  sires  enrolled 
It  latterly,  the  Adelardi  spared 
No  pains  to  rival  them  :  both  factions  shared 
Ferrara,  so  that,  counted  out,  't  would  yield 
A  product  very  like  the  city's  shield. 
Half  black  and  white,  or  Ghibellin  and  Guelf 
As  after  Salinguerra  styled  himself, 
And  Este  who,  till  Marchesalia  died, 
(Last  of  the  Adelardi)  —  never  tried 
His  fortune  there  :  with  Marchesalla's  child 
AVould  pass,  —  could  Blacks  and  Whites  be  reconciled, 
And  young  Taurello  wed  Linguetta,  —  wealth 
And  sway  to  a  sole  grasp.     Each  treats  by  stealth 
Already  :  when  the  Guelfs,  the  Ravennese 
Arrive,  assault  the  Pietro  quarter,  seize 
Linguetta,  and  are  gone  !     Men's  first  dismay 
Abated  somewhat,  hurries  down,  to  lay 
The  after  indignation,  Boniface, 
This  Richard's  father.     "  Learn  the  full  disgrace 
Averted,  ere  you  blame  us  Guelfs,  who  rate 
Your  Salinguerra,  your  sole  potentate 
That  might  have  been,  'mongst  Este's  valvassors  — 
Ay,  Azzo's  —  who,  not  privy  to,  abhors 
Our  step  ;  but  we  were  zealous."     Azzo's  then 
To  do  with  !      Straight  a  meeting  of  old  men : 
"  Old  Salinguerra  dead,  his  heir  a  boy. 
What  if  we  change  our  ruler  and  decoy 
The  Lombard  Eagle  of  the  azure  sphere 
With  Italy  to  build  in,  fix  him  here. 
Settle  the  city's  troubles  in  a  trice  ? 
For  private  wrong,  let  public  good  suffice !  " 
In  fine,  young  Salinguerra's  stanchest  friends 
Talked  of  the  townsmen  making  him  amends, 
Gave  him  a  goshawk,  and  affirmed  there  was 
Rare  sport,  one  morning,  over  the  green  grass 
A  mile  or  so.     He  sauntered  through  the  plain, 
Was  restless,  fell  to  thinking,  turned  again 
In  time  for  Azzo's  entry  with  the  bride  ; 
Count  Boniface  rode  smirking  at  their  side  ; 
*'  She  brings  him  half  Ferrara,"  whispers  flew, 
"  And  all  Ancona  !      If  the  stripling  knew  ! 
Anon  the  stripling  was  in  Sicily 
Wliere  Heinrich  ruled  in  right  of  Constance ;   he 
Was  gracious  nor  his  guest  incapable  ; 


A    FRESH   CALAMITY  CHECKS  FORTUNE     273 

Each  luulerstood  the  other.     So  it  fell, 

One  Spring,  when  Azzo,  thoroughly  at  ease, 

Had  near  forgotten  by  what  precise  degrees 

He  crept  at  first  to  such  a  downy  seat, 

That  Count  trudged  over  in  a  special  heat 

To  bid  him  of  God's  love  dislodge  from  each 

Of  Salinguerra's  palaces,  —  a  breach 

Might  yawn  else,  not  so  readily  to  shut. 

For  who  was  just  arrived  at  Mantua  but 

The  youngster,  sword  on  thigh  and  tuft  on  chin, 

With  tokens  for  Celano,  Ecelin, 

Pistore,  and  the  like  !     Next  news,  —  no  whit 

Do  any  of  Ferrara's  domes  befit 

His  wife  of  Heinrich's  very  blood  :   a  band 

Of  foreigners  assemble,  understand 

Garden-constructing,  level  and  surround, 

Build  uj)  and  bury  in.     A  last  news  crowned 

The  consternation  :  since  his  infant's  birth. 

He  only  waits  they  end  his  wondrous  girth 

Of  trees  that  link  San  Pietro  with  Toma, 

To  visit  Mantua.     AVhen  the  Podesta 

Ecelin,  at  Vicenza,  called  his  friend 

Taurello  thither,  what  could  be  their  end 

But  to  restore  the  Ghibellins'  late  Head, 

The  Kaiser  helping  ?     He  with  most  to  dread 

From  vengeance  and  reprisal,  Azzo,  there 

With  Boniface  beforehand,  as  aware 

Of  plots  in  progress,  gave  alarm,  expelled 

Both  plotters :   but  the  Guelfs  in  triumph  yelled 

Too  hastily.     The  burning  and  the  flight, 

And  how  Taurello,  occupied  that  night 

With  Ecelin,  lost  wife  and  son,  I  told  : 

—  Not  how  he  bore  the  blow,  retained  his  hold, 

Got  friends  safe  through,  left  enemies  the  worst 

O'  the  fray,  and  hardly  seemed  to  care  at  first  — 

But  afterward  men  heard  not  constantly 

Of  Salinguerra's  House  so  sure  to  be  ! 

Though  Azzo  simply  gained  by  the  event 

A  shifting  of  his  plagues  —  the  first,  content 

To  fall  behind  the  second  and  estrange 

So  far  his  nature,  suffer  such  a  change 

That  in  Romano  sought  he  wife  and  child 

And  for  Romano's  sake  seemed  reconciled 

To  losing  individual  life,  which  shrunk 

As  the  other  prospered  —  mortised  in  his  trunk  ; 

Like  a  dwarf  palm  which  wanton  Arabs  foil 


274  SORDELLO 

Of  bearing  its  own  proper  wine  and  oil, 
By  grafting  into  it  the  stranger-vine, 
Wliicli  sucks  its  lieart  out,  sly  and  serpentine, 
Till  forth  one  vine-palm  featiiers  to  the  root, 
And  red  drops  moisten  the  insipid  fruit. 
Once  Adelaide  set  on,  —  the  subtle  mate 
Of  the  weak  soldier,  urged  to  emulate 
The  Church's  valiant  women  deed  for  deed. 
And  paragon  her  namesake,  win  the  meed 
O'  the  great  Matilda,  —  soon  they  overbore 
The  rest  of  Lombardy,  —  not  as  before 
By  an  instinctive  truculence,  but  patched 
The  Kaiser's  strategy  until  it  matched 
The  Pontiff's,  sought  old  ends  by  novel  means. 
"  Only,  why  is  it  Salinguerra  screens 
Himself  behind  Romano  ?  —  him  we  bade 
Enjoy  our  shine  i'  the  front,  not  seek  the  shade  !  " 

—  Asked  Heinrich,  somewhat  of  the  tardiest 
To  comprehend.     Nor  Philip  acquiesced 

At  once  in  the  arrangement ;  reasoned,  plied 
His  friend  with  offers  of  another  bride, 
A  statelier  function  —  fruitlessly  :  't  was  plain 
Taurello  through  some  weakness  must  remain 
Obscure.     And  Otho,  free  to  judge  of  both, 

—  Ecelin  the  unready,  harsh  and  loth. 
And  this  more  plausible  and  facile  wight 
With  every  point  a-sparkle  —  chose  the  right, 
Admiring  how  his  i3redecessors  harped 

On  the  ^vrong  man  :   "  thus,"  quoth  he,  "  wits  are  warped 

By  outsides  I  "     Carelessly,  meanwhile,  his  life 

Suffered  its  many  turns  of  peace  and  strife 

In  many  lands  —  you  hardly  could  surprise 

The  man  ;  who  shamed  Sordello  (recognize  !) 

In  this  as  much  beside,  that,  unconcerned 

What  qualities  were  natural  or  earned, 

With  no  ideal  of  graces,  as  they  came 

He  took  them,  singularly  well  the  same  — 

Speaking  the  Greek's  own  language,  just  because 

Your  Greek  eludes  you,  leave  the  least  of  flaws 

In  contracts  with  him  ;  while,  since  Arab  lore 

Holds  the  stars'  secret  —  take  one  trouble  more 

And  master  it !     'T  is  done,  and  now  deter 

AVho  may  the  Tuscan,  once  Jove  trined  for  her, 

From  Friedrich's  path  !  —  Friedrich,  whose  i)ilgrimage 

The  same  man  puts  aside,  Avhom  he  '11  engage 

To  leave  next  year  John  Brienne  in  the  lurch, 


so  HE  FIGURES  IN   THE   SECOND  RANK    275 

Come  to  Bassano,  see  Saint  Francis'  church 

And  judj^e  of  Giiido  the  Bolognian's  piece 

Which,  lend  Taurello  credit,  rivals  Greece  — 

Angels,  with  aureoles  like  golden  quoits 

Pitched  home,  applauding  Ecelin's  exjiloits. 

For  elegance,  he  strung  the  angelot, 

Made  rhymes  thereto ;  for  prowess,  clove  he  not 

Tiso,  last  siege,  from  crest  to  crupper  ?     Why 

Detail  you  thus  a  varied  mastery 

But  to  show  how  Taurello,  on  the  watch 

For  men,  to  read  their  hearts  and  thereby  catch 

Their  capabilities  and  purposes, 

Displayed  himself  so  far  as  displayed  these  : 

While  our  Bordello  only  cared  to  know 

About  men  as  a  means  whereby  he  'd  show 

Himself,  and  men  had  much  or  little  worth 

According  as  they  kept  in  or  drew  forth 

That  self  ;  the  other's  choicest  instruments 

Surmised  him  shallow. 

Meantime,  malcontents 
DropjDed  off,  town  after  town  grew  wiser.     "  How 
Change  the  world's  face  ?  "  asked  people  ;  "  as  't  is  now 
It  has  been,  will  be  ever  :  very  fine 
Subjecting  things  profane  to  things  divine, 
In  talk  !     This  contumacy  will  fatigue 
The  vigilance  of  Este  and  the  League ! 
The  Ghibellins  gain  on  us  !  "  —  as  it  happed. 
Old  Azzo  and  old  Boniface,  entrapped 
By  Ponte  Alto,  both  in  one  month's  vspace 
Slept  at  Verona  :  either  left  a  brace 
Of  sons  —  but,  three  years  after,  either's  pair 
Lost  Guglielm  and  Aldobrand  its  heir  : 
Azzo  remained  and  Richard  —  all  the  stay 
Of  Este  and  Saint  Boniface,  at  bay 
As  't  were.     Then,  either  Ecelin  grew  old 
Or  his  brain  altered  —  not  o'  the  proper  mould 
For  new  appliances  —  his  old  palm-stock 
Endured  no  influx  of  strange  strengths.     He  'd  rock 
As  in  a  drunkenness,  or  chuckle  low 
As  proud  of  the  completeness  of  his  woe. 
Then  weep  real  tears  ;  —  now  make  some  mad  onslaught 
On  Este,  heedless  of  the  lesson  taught 
So  painfully,  —  now  cringe  for  peace,  sue  peace 
At  price  of  past  gain,  bar  of  fresh  increase 
To  the  fortunes  of  Romano.     Up  at  last 
Rose  Este,  down  Romano  sank  as  fast. 


276  SORDELLO 

And  men  remarked  these  freaks  of  peace  and  war 
Happened  while  Saiinguerra  was  afar  : 
Whence  every  friend  besought  him,  all  in  vain, 
To  use  his  old  adherent's  wits  again. 
Not  he  I  —  "  who  had  advisers  in  his  sons, 
Could  plot  himself,  nor  needed  any  one's 
Advice."     'T  was  Adelaide's  remaining  stanch 
Prevented  his  destruction  root  and  branch 
Forthwith  ;  but  when  she  died,  doom  fell,  for  gay 
He  made  alliances,  gave  lands  away 
To  whom  it  pleased  accept  them,  and  withdrew 
Forever  from  the  world.     Taurello,  who 
Was  summoned  to  the  convent,  then  refused 
A  word  at  the  wicket,  patience  thus  abused, 
Promptly  threw  off  alike  his  imbecile 
Ally's  yoke,  and  his  own  frank,  foolish  smile. 
Soon  a  few  movements  of  the  happier  sort 
Changed  matters,  put  himself  in  men's  report 
As  heretofore  ;  he  had  to  fight,  beside. 
And  that  became  him  ever.     So,  in  pride 
And  flushing  of  this  kind  of  second  youth. 
He  dealt  a  s^ood-will  blow.      Este  in  truth 
Lay  prone  —  and  men  remembered,  somewhat  late, 
A  laughing  old  outrageous  stifled  hate 
He  bore  to  Este  —  how  it  would  outbreak 
At  times  spite  of  disguise,  like  an  earthquake 
In  sunny  weather  —  as  that  noted  day 
When  with  his  hundred  friends  he  tried  to  slay 
Azzo  before  the  Kaiser's  face :  and  how, 
On  Azzo's  calm  refusal  to  allow 
A  liegeman's  challenge,  straight  he  too  was  calmed : 
As  if  his  hate  could  bear  to  lie  embalmed, 
Bricked  up,  the  moody  Pharaoh,  and  survive 
All  intermediate  crumblings,  to  arrive 
At  earth's  catastrophe  —  't  was  Paste's  crash 
Not  Azzo's  he  demanded,  so,  no  rash 
Procedure  !      Este's  true  antagonist 
Rose  out  of  Ecelin  :  all  voices  whist, 
All  eyes  were  sharpened,  wits  predicted.     He 
'T  was,  leaned  in  the  embrasure  absently, 
Amused  with  his  own  efforts,  now,  to  trace 
With  his  steel-sheathed  forefinger  Friedrich's  face 
I'  the  dust :  but  as  the  trees  waved  sere,  his  smile 
Deepened,  and  words  expressed  its  thought  erewhile. 
"  Ay,  fairly  housed  at  last,  my  old  compeer  ? 
That  we  should  stick  tooethcr,  all  the  vear 


SALINGUEllRA    SOLILOQUIZES  277 

I  kept  Vicenza  I  —  How  old  Boniface, 
Old  Azzo  caught  us  in  its  market-place, 
He  by  that  pillar,  I  at  this,  —  caught  each 
In  mid  swing,  more  than  tury  of  his  speech, 
Eo-rrincr  the  rabble  on  to  disavow 
Allegiance  to  their  Marquis  —  Bacchus,  how 
They  boasted  !     Ecelin  nuist  turn  their  drudge, 
Nor,  if  released,  will  Salinguerra  grudge 
Paying  arrears  of  tribute  due  long  since  — 
Bacchus  !     My  man  could  promise  then,  nor  wince, 
The  bones-and-muscles  !      Sound  of  wind  and  limb. 
Spoke  he  the  set  excuse  I  framed  for  him : 
And  now  he  sits  me,  slavering  and  mute, 
Intent  on  chafing  each  starved  purple  foot 
Benumbed  past  aching  with  the  altar  slab  — 
Will  no  vein  throb  there  when  some  monk  shall  blab 
Spitefully  to  the  circle  of  bald  scalps, 
'  Friedrich  's  affirmed  to  be  our  side  the  Alps  ' 
—  Eh,  brother  Lactance,  brother  Anaclet  ? 
Sworn  to  abjure  the  world,  its  fume  and  fret, 
God's  own  now  ?     Drop  the  dormitory  bar. 
Enfold  the  scanty  gray  serge  scapular 
Twice  o'er  the  cowl  to  muffle  memories  out ! 
So !      But  the  midnight  whisper  turns  a  shout, 
Eyes  wink,  mouths  open,  pulses  circulate 
In  the  stone  walls  :  the  past,  the  world  you  hate 
Is  with  you,  ambush,  oj^en  field  —  or  see 
The  surging  flame  —  we  fire  Vicenza  —  glee  ! 
Follow,  let  Pilio  and  Bernardo  chafe  ! 
Bring  up  the  Mantuans  —  through  San  Biagio  —  safe  ! 
Ah,  the  mad  people  waken  ?     Ah,  they  writhe 
And  reach  us  ?     If  they  block  the  gate  ?     No  tithe 
Can  pass  —  keep  back,  you  Bassanese  !     The  edge, 
Use  the  edge  —  shear,  thrust,  hew,  melt  down  the  wedge. 
Let  out  the  black  of  those  black  upturned  eyes ! 
Hell  —  are  they  sprinkling  fire  too  ?     The  blood  fries 
And  hisses  on  your  brass  gloves  as  they  tear 
Those  upturned  faces  choking  with  despair. 
Brave  I     Slidder  through  the  reeking  gate  !      '  How  now  ? 
You  six  had  charge  of  her  ?  '     And  then  the  vow 
Comes,  and  the  foam  spirts,  hair  's  plucked,  till  one  shriek 
( I  hear  it)  and  you  fling  —  you  cannot  speak  — 
Your  gold-flowered  basnet  to  a  man  who  haled 
The  Adelaide  he  dared  scarce  view  unveiled 
This  morn,  naked  across  the  fire  :   how  crown 
The  archer  that  exhausted  lay&  you  down 


278  SORDELLO 

Your  infant,  smiling  at  the  flame,  and  dies  ? 
While  one,  while  mine  .   .  . 

Bacchus  !     I  think  there  lies 
More  than  one  corpse  there  "  (and  he  paced  the  room) 
"  —  Another  cinder  somewhere  :   '  twas  my  doom 
Beside,  my  doom !     If  Adelaide  is  dead, 
I  live  the  same,  this  Azzo  lives  instead 
Of  that  to  me,  and  we  jduU,  any  how, 
Este  into  a  heap  :  the  matter 's  now 
At  the  true  juncture  slipping  us  so  oft. 
Ay,  Heinrich  died  and  Otho,  please  you,  doffed 
His  crown  at  such  a  juncture  !     Still,  if  hold 
Our  Friedrich's  purpose,  if  this  chain  enfold 
The  neck  of  .  .  .  who  but  this  same  Ecelin 
That  must  recoil  when  the  best  days  begin  ! 
Recoil  ?  that 's  nought ;  if  the  recoiler  leaves 
His  name  for  me  to  fight  with,  no  one  grieves  : 
But  he  must  interfere,  forsooth,  unlock 
His  cloister  to  become  my  stumbling-block 
Just  as  of  old  !     Ay,  ay,  there  't  is  again  — 
The  land's  in6vitable  Head  —  explain 
The  reverences  that  subject  us  !      Count 
These  Ecelins  now  !     Not  to  say  as  fount, 
Originating  power  of  thought,  —  from  twelve 
That  drop  i'  the  trenches  they  joined  hands  to  delve, 
Six  shall  surpass  him,  but  .  .   .  why,  men  must  twine 
Somehow  with  something  !     Ecelin  's  a  fine 
Clear  name  !     'T  were  simpler,  doubtless,  twine  with  me 
At  once  :   our  cloistered  friend's  capacity 
Was  of  a  sort !     I  had  to  share  myself 
In  fifty  portions,  like  an  o'ertasked  elf 
That 's  forced  illume  in  fifty  points  the  vast 
Rare  vapor  he  's  environed  by.     At  last 
My  strengths,  though  sorely  frittered,  e'en  converge 
And  crown  .  .  .  no,  Bacchus,  they  have  yet  to  urge 
The  man  be  crowned  ! 

That  aloe,  an  he  durst. 
Would  climb  !     Just  such  a  bloated  sprawler  first 
I  noted  in  Messina's  castle-court 
The  day  I  came,  when  Heinrich  asked  in  sport 
If  I  would  pledge  my  faith  to  win  him  back 
His  right  in  Lombardy :   '  for,  once  bid  pack 
Marauders,'  he  continued,  '  in  my  stead 
You  rule,  Taurello  ! '  and  upon  this  head 
Laid  the  silk  glove  of  Constance  —  I  see  her 


WHOM  DOES   THE   PRIZE  AWAIT?  279 

Too,  mantled  head  to  foot  in  miniver, 
RetiLule  following  ! 

I  am  absolved 
From  further  toil :   the  empery  devolved 
On  me,  't  was  Tito's  word :   I  have  to  lay 
For  once  my  plan,  pursue  my  plan  my  way, 
Pi'oni})t  nobody,  and  render  an  account 
Taurello  to  Taurello!     Nay,  I  mount 
To  Friedrich  :  he  conceives  th3  post  I  kept, 

—  Who  did  true  service,  able  or  inept, 
Who  's  worthy  guerdon,  Ecelin  or  I. 

Me  guerdoned,  counsel  follows  :  would  lie  vie 
AVith  the  Pope  really  ?     Azzo,  Boniface 
Compose  a  right-arm  Hohenstaulfen's  race 
Must  break  ere  govern  Lombardy.      I  point 
How  easy  't  were  to  twist,  once  out  of  joint. 
The  socket  from  the  bone  :  my  Azzo's  stare 
Meanwhile  !  for  I,  this  idle  strap  to  wear. 
Shall  —  fret  myself  abundantly,  what  end 
To  serve  ?     There  's  left  me  twenty  years  to  spend 

—  How  better  than  my  old  way  ?     Had  I  one 
Who  labored  overthrow  my  work  —  a  son 
Hatching  with  Azzo  sujierb  treachery. 

To  root  my  pines  up  and  then  poison  me. 

Suppose  —  't  were  worth  while  frustrate  that !     Beside, 

Another  life  's  ordained  me :  the  world's  tide 

Rolls,  and  what  hope  of  parting  from  the  press 

Of  waves,  a  single  wave  through  weariness 

Gently  lifted  aside,  laid  ujion  shore  ? 

My  life  must  be  lived  out  in  foam  and  roar. 

No  question.     Fifty  years  the  province  held 

Taurello  ;  troubles  raised,  and  troubles  quelled. 

He  in  the  midst  —  who  leaves  this  quaint  stone  place. 

These  trees  a  year  or  two,  then  not  a  trace 

Of  him  !     How  obtain  hold,  fetter  men's  tongues 

Like  this  poor  minstrel  with  the  foolish  songs  — 

To  which,  despite  our  bustle,  he  is  linked  ? 

—  Flowers  one  may  tease,  that  never  grow  extinct. 
Ay,  that  patch,  surely,  green  as  ever,  where 

I  set  Her  Moorisli  lentisk,  by  the  stair. 

To  overawe  the  aloes  ;  and  we  trod 

Those  flowers,  how  call  you  such  ?  —  into  the  sod  ; 

A  stately  foreigner  —  a  woi'ld  of  pain 

To  make  it  thrive,  arrest  rough  winds  —  all  vain ! 

It  would  decline  ;  these  would  not  be  destroyed : 


280  SORDELLO 

And  now,  where  is  it  ?  where  can  you  avoid 
The  flowers  ?     I  frighten  children  twenty  years 
Longer  !  —  which  way,  too,  EceUn  appears 
To  thwart  me,  for  his  son's  besotted  youth 
Gives  promise  of  the  proper  tiger-tooth  : 
Tt\ey  feel  it  at  Vicenza  !     Fate,  fate,  fate, 
My  fine  Taurello  !      Go  you,  promulgate 
Friedrich's  decree,  and  here  's  shall  aggrandize 
Young  Ecelin  —  your  Prefect's  badge  !   a  prize 
Too  precious,  certainly. 

How  now  ?     Compete 
With  my  old  comrade?  shuffle  from  their  seat 
His  children  ?     Paltry  dealing  !     Don't  I  know 
Ecelin  ?  now,  I  think,  and  years  ago  ! 
AVliat  's  changed  —  the  weakness  ?  did  not  I  compound 
For  that,  and  undertake  to  keep  him  sound 
Despite  it  ?     Here  's  Taurello  hankering 
After  a  boy's  preferment  —  this  plaything 
To  carry,  Bacchus  !  "     And  he  laughed. 

Remark 
Why  schemes  wherein  cold-blooded  men  embark 
ProsjDer,  when  your  enthusiastic  sort 
Fail :  while  these  last  are  ever  stopping  short  — 
(So  much  they  should  —  so  little  they  can  do  !) 
The  careless  tribe  see  nothing  to  pursue 
If  they  desist ;  meantime  their  scheme  succeeds. 
Thoughts  were  caprices  in  the  course  of  deeds 
Methodic  with  Taurello  ;  so,  he  turned, 
Enough  amused  by  fancies  fairly  earned 
Of  Este's  horror-struck  submitted  neck, 
And  Richard,  the  cowed  braggart,  at  his  beck, 
To  his  own  petty  but  immediate  doubt 
If  he  could  pacify  the  League  without 
Conceding  Richard  ;  just  to  this  was  brought 
That  interval  of  vain  discursive  thought ! 
As,  shall  I  say,  some  Ethiop,  past  pursuit 
Of  all  enslavers,  dips  a  shackled  foot 
Burnt  to  the  blood,  into  the  drowsy  black 
Enormous  watercourse  which  guides  him  back 
To  his  own  tribe  again,  where  he  is  king ; 
And  laughs  because  he  guesses,  numbering 
The  yellower  ])oison-wattles  on  the  pouch 
Of  the  first  lizard  wrested  from  its  couch 
Under  the  slime  (whose  skin,  the  while  he  strips 
To  cure  his  nostril  witli,  and  fostered  li]is, 
And  eyeballs  bloodshot  through  the  desert-blast) 


WHAT  MAKES  A    GUIBELUN?  281 

That  he  has  reached  its  boundary,  at  last 

May  breathe  ;  —  thinks  o'er  enchantments  of  the  South 

Sovereign  to  plague  his  enemies,  tlieir  mouth, 

Eyes,  nails,  and  liair ;  but,  these  enchantments  tried 

In  fancy,  puts  them  soberly  aside 

For  truth,  projects  a  cool  return  with  friends, 

The  likelihood  of  winning  mere  amends 

Ere  long  ;  tliinks  that,  takes  comfort  silently, 

Then,  from  the  river's  brink,  his  wrongs  and  he, 

Huj^nrinor  revensre  close  to  their  hearts,  are  soon 

Off-stridino-  for  tlie  Mountains  of  the  Moon. 

Midnight :  the  watcher  nodded  on  his  spear, 
Since  clouds  dispeising  left  a  passage  clear 
For  any  meagre  and  discolored  moon 
To  venture  forth  ;  and  such  was  peering  soon 
Above  the  harassed  city  —  her  close  lanes 
Closer,  not  half  so  tapering  her  fanes. 
As  though  she  shrunk  into  herself  to  keep 
What  little  life  was  saved,  more  safely.      Heap 
By  heap  the  watch-fires  mouldered,  and  beside 
The  blackest  spoke  Sordello  and  rej^lied 
Palma  with  none  to  listen.      "  Tis  your  cause  : 
What  makes  a  Ghibellin  ?     There  should  be  laws  ^ 
(Remember  how  my  youth  escaped  !     I  trust 
To  you  for  manhood,  Palma  ?  tell  me  just 
As  any  child)  —  there  must  be  laws  at  work 
Explaining  this.     Assure  me,  good  may  lurk 
Under  the  bad,  —  my  multitude  has  jiart 
In  your  designs,  their  welfare  is  at  heart 
With  Salinguerra,  to  their  interest 
Refer  the  deeds  he  dwelt  on,  —  so  divest 
Oar  conference  of  much  that  scared  me.     Why 
Affect  that  heartless  tone  to  Tito  ?     I 
Esteemed  myself,  yes,  in  my  inmost  mind 
This  morn,  a  recreant  to  my  race  —  mankind 
O'erlooked  till  now :  why  boasts  my  spirit's  force, 
—  Such  force  denied  its  object  ?  why  divorce 
These,  then  admire  my  spirit's  flight  the  same 
As  though  it  bore  up,  helped  some  half-orbed  flame 
Else  quenched  in  the  dead  void,  to  living  space  ? 
That  orb  cast  off  to  chaos  and  disgrace. 
Why  vaunt  so  much  my  unencumbered  dance, 
Makinof  a  feat's  facilities  enhance 
Its  marvel  ?     But  I  front  Taurello,  one 
Of  happier  fate,  and  all  I  should  have  done. 
He  does ;  the  peo2)le's  good  being  paramount 


282  SORDELLO 

With  him,  their  progress  may  perhaps  account 
For  his  abiding  still ;  whereas  you  heard 
The  talk  with  Tito  —  the  excuse  preferred 
For  burning  those  five  hostages,  —  and  broached 
By  way  of  blind,  as  you  and  I  approached, 
I  do  believe." 

She  spoke  :  then  he,  "  My  thought 
Plainlier  exjjressed  !     All  to  your  profit  —  nought 
Meantime  of  these,  of  conquests  to  achieve 
For  them,  of  wretchedness  he  might  relieve 
While  profiting  your  party.     Azzo,  too. 
Supports  a  cause  :  what  cause  ?     Do  Guelfs  pursue 
Their  ends  by  means  like  yours,  or  better  ?  " 

When 
The  Guelfs  were  proved  alike,  men  weighed  with  men, 
And  deed  with  deed,  blaze,  blood,  with  blood  and  blaze, 
Morn  broke  :   "  Once  more,  Sordello,  meet  its  gaze 
Proudly  —  the  people's  charge  against  thee  fails 
In  every  point,  while  either  party  quails  ! 
These  are  the  busy  ones  :  be  silent  thou  ! 
Two  parties  take  the  world  up,  and  allow 
No  third,  yet  have  one  jn'inciple,  subsist 
By  the  same  injustice  ;  whoso  shall  enlist 
With  either,  ranks  with  man's  inveterate  foes. 
So  there  is  one  less  quarrel  to  compose  : 
The  Guelf,  the  Ghibellin  may  be  to  curse  — 
I  have  done  nothing,  but  both  sides  do  worse 
Than  nothing.     Nay,  to  me,  forgotten,  reft 
Of  insight,  lapped  by  trees  and  flowers,  was  left 
The  notion  of  a  service  —  ha  ?     What  lured 
Me  here,  what  mighty  aim  was  I  assured 
Must  move  Taurello  ?     What  if  there  remained 
A  cause,  intact,  distinct  from  these,  ordained 
For  me,  its  true  discoverer  ?  " 

Some  one  pressed 
Before  them  here,  a  watcher,  to  susfirest 

r¥-n  ■%     •  Oct 

The  subject  for  a  ballad  :   "  They  must  know 
The  tale  of  the  dead  worthy,  long  ago 
Consul  of  Rome  —  that 's  long-  airo  for  us. 
Minstrels  and  bowmen,  idly  squabbling  thus 
In  the  world's  corner  —  but  too  late  no  doubt. 
For  the  brave  time  he  souMit  to  brinsf  about. 
—  Not  know  Crescentius  Nomentanus  ?  "     Then 
He  cast  about  for  terms  to  tell  him,  when 
Sordello  disavowed  it,  how  they  used 
Whenever  their  Superior  introduced 


WHO    WAS   THE  ROMAN   CRESCENTIUS?     283 

A  novice  to  the  Brotherhood  —  ("  for  I 
Was  just  a  brown-sleeve  brother,  merrily- 
Appointed  too,"  quoth  he,  "  till  Innocent 
Bade  me  relinquish,  to  my  small  content, 
My  wife  or  my  brown  sleeves  ")  —  some  brother  spoke 
Ere  nocturns  of  Crescentius,  to  revoke 
The  edict  issued,  after  his  demise, 
Which  blotted  fame  alike  and  effigies, 
All  out  except  a  floating  power,  a  name 
Including,  tending  to  produce  the  same 
Great  act.      Rome,  dead,  forgotten,  lived  at  least 
Within  that  brain,  though  to  a  vulgar  priest 
And  a  vile  stranger,  —  two  not  worth  a  slave 
Of  Rome's,  Pope  John,  King  Otho,  —  fortune  gave 
The  rule  there :   so,  Crescentius,  haply  dressed 
In  white,  called  Roman  Consul  for  a  jest, 
Taking  the  people  at  their  word,  forth  stepped 
As  upon  Brutus'  heel,  nor  ever  kept 
Rome  waiting,  —  stood  erect,  and  from  his  brain 
Gave  Rome  out  on  its  ancient  place  again. 
Ay,  bade  j^roceed  with  Brutus'  Rome,  Kings  styled 
Themselves  mere  citizens  of,  and,  beguiled 
Into  great  thouglits  thereby,  would  choose  the  gem 
Out  of  a  lapfull,  spoil  their  diadem 
—  The  Senate's  cypher  was  so  hard  to  scratch  ! 
He  flashes  like  a  phanal,  all  men  catch 
The  flame,  Rome  's  just  accomplished  I  when  returned 
Otho,  with  John,  the  Consul's  step  had  spurned, 
And  Husfo  Lord  of  Este,  to  redress 
The  wrongs  of  each.     Crescentms  m  the  stress 
Of  adverse  fortune  bent.     "  They  crucified 
Their  Consul  in  the  Forum  ;  and  abide 
E'er  since  such  slaves  at  Rome,  that  I  —  (for  I 
Was  once  a  brown-sleeve  brother,  merrily 
Appointed)  —  I  had  option  to  keep  wife 
Or  keep  brown  sleeves,  and  managed  in  the  strife 
Lose  both.     A  song  of  Rome  I  " 

And  Rome,  indeed, 
Robed  at  Goito  in  fantastic  weed, 
The  Mother-City  of  his  IVIantuan  days. 
Looked  an  established  point  of  light  w^hence  rays 
Traversed  the  world  ;  for,  all  the  clustered  homes 
Beside  of  men,  seemed  bent  on  being  Romes 
In  their  degree  ;  the  question  was,  how  each 
Should  most  resemble  Rome,  clean  out  of  reach. 
Nor,  of  the  great  Two,  either  principle. 


284  SORDELLO 

Struggled  to  change  —  but  to  possess  —  Rome,  still, 
Gaelf  Rome  or  Ghibellin  Rome. 

Let  Rome  advance  ! 
Rome,  as  she  struck  Bordello's  ignorance  — 
How  could  he  doubt  one  moment  ?     Rome  's  the  Cause  ! 
Rome  of  the  Pandects,  all  the  world's  new  laws  — 
Of  the  Capitol,  of  Castle  Angelo ; 
New  structures,  that  inordinately  glow. 
Subdued,  brought  back  to  harmony,  made  ripe 
By  many  a  relic  of  the  archetype 
Extant  for  wonder  ;  every  uj)start  church 
That  liojDed  to  leave  old  temples  in  the  lurch. 
Corrected  by  the  Theatre  forlorn 
That,  —  as  a  mundane  shell,  its  world  late  born,  — 
Lay  and  o'ershadowed  it.     These  hints  combined, 
Rome  typifies  the  scheme  to  put  mankind 
Once  more  in  full  possession  of  their  rights. 
"  Let  us  have  Rome  again  !     On  me  it  lights 
To  build  up  Rome  —  on  me,  the  first  and  last : 
For  such  a  future  was  endured  the  past  I  " 
And  thus,  in  the  gray  twilight,  forth  he  sprung 
To  give  his  thought  consistency  among 
The  very  People  —  let  their  facts  avail 
Finish  the  dream  grown  from  the  archer's  tale. 


BOOK  THE   FIFTH. 

Is  it  the  same  Sordello  in  the  dusk 

As  at  the  dawn  ?  —  merely  a  perished  husk 

Now,  that  arose  a  power  fit  to  build 

Up  Rome  again  ?     The  proud  conception  chilled 

So  soon  ?     Ay,  watch  that  latest  dream  of  thine 

—  A  Rome  indebted  to  no  Palatine  — 

Drop  arch  by  arch,  Sordello  !      Art  possessed 

Of  thy  wish  now,  rewarded  for  thy  quest 

To-day  among  Ferrara's  squalid  sons  ? 

Are  this  and  this  and  this  the  shining  ones 

Meet  for  the  Shining  City  ?     Sooth  to  say, 

Your  favored  tenantry  pursue  their  way 

After  a  fashion  !     This  companion  slips 

On  the  smooth  causey,  t'  other  blinkard  trips 

At  his  mooned  sandal.      "  Leave  to  lead  tlie  brawls 

Here  i'  the  atria?  "     No,  friend  !     He  that  sprawls 

On  aught  but  a  stibadium  .   .   .  what  his  dues 


MANKIND'S  TRIUMPH  THE  WORK  OF  AGES    285 

Who  puts  the  lustral  vase  to  such  an  use  ? 
Oh,  huddle  up  the  day's  disasters  !     March, 
Ye  runagates,  and  drop  thou,  arch  by  arch, 
Rome  I 

Yet  before  they  quite  disband  —  a  whim  — 
Study  mere  shelter,  now.  for  him,  and  liim, 
Nay,  even  the  worst,  —  just  house  them  I     Any  cave 
Suffices  :  throw  out  earth !      A  loophole  ?     Brave  ! 
They  ask  to  feel  the  sun  slune,  see  the  grass 
Grow,  hear  the  larks  sing  ?     Dead  art  tliou,  alas, 
And  I  am  dead  !     But  here  's  our  son  excels 
At  hurdle-weaving  any  Scythian,  fells 
Oak  and  devises  rafters,  dreams  and  shapes 
His  dream  into  a  door-jjost,  just  escapes 
The  mystery  of  liinges.     Lie  we  both 
Perdue  another  age.     The  goo<^lly  growth 
Of  brick  and  stone  !     Our  building-pelt  was  rough, 
But  that  descendant's  garb  suits  well  enough 
A  portico-contriver.     Speed  the  years  — 
What 's  time  to  us  ?     At  last,  a  city  rears 
Itself  !   nay,  enter  —  what 's  the  grave  to  us  ? 
Lo,  our  forlorn  acquaintance  carry  thus 
The  head  !     Successively  sewer,  forum,  cirque  — 
Last  age,  an  aqueduct  was  counted  work. 
But  now  they  tire  the  artificer  upon 
Blank  alabaster,  black  obsidion, 
—  Careful,  Jove's  face  be  duly  fulgurant. 
And  mother  Venus'  kiss-creased  nipples  pant 
Back  into  pristine  pulpiness,  ere  fixed 
Above  the  baths.     What  difference  betwixt 
This  Rome  and  ours  —  resemblance  what,  between 
That  scurvy  dumb-show  and  this  pageant  sheen  — 
These  Romans  and  our  rabble  ?     Use  thy  wit ! 
The  work  marched  :  step  by  step,  —  a  workman  fit 
Took  each,  nor  too  fit,  —  to  one  task,  one  time,  — 
No  leaping  o'er  the  petty  to  the  prime, 
When  just  the  substituting  osier  lithe 
For  brittle  bulrush,  sound  wood  for  soft  withe. 
To  f  urtlier  loam-and-roughcast-work  a  stage,  — 
Exacts  an  arcliitect,  exacts  an  age : 
No  tables  of  tlie  Mauritanian  tree 
For  men  whose  maple  Iogj  's  their  luxury ! 
That  way  was  Rome  built.      "  Better  "  (say  you)  "  merge 
At  once  all  workmen  in  the  demiurge. 
All  epochs  in  a  lifetime,  every  task 
In  one !  "    So  should  the  sudden  city  bask 


286  SORDELLO 

T  the  day  —  while  those  we  'd  feast  there,  want  the  knack 
Of  keeping  fresh-chalked  gowns  from  speck  and  brack, 
Distinguish  not  rare  peacock  from  vile  swan, 
Nor  Mareotic  juice  from  Coecuban. 

*'  Knough  of  Rome  !     'T  was  happy  to  conceive 
Rome  on  a  sudden,  nor  shall  fate  bereave 
Me  of  that  credit :   for  the  rest,  her  spite 
Is  an  old  story  —  serves  my  folly  right 
By  adding  yet  another  to  the  dull 
List  of  abortions  —  things  proved  beautiful 
Could  they  be  done,  Bordello  cannot  do." 

He  sat  upon  the  terrace,  j^lucked  and  threw 
The  powdery  aloe-cusps  away,  saw  shift 
Rome's  walls,  and  drop  arch  after  arch,  and  drift 
Mist-like  afar  those  pillars  of  all  stripe, 
Mounds  of  all  majesty.     "  Thou  archetype. 
Last  of  my  dreams  and  loveliest,  depart !  " 
And  then  a  low  voice  wound  into  his  heart : 

"  Sordello  !  "  (low  as  some  old  Pythoness 
Conceding  to  a  Lydian  King's  distress 
The  cause  of  his  long  error  —  one  mistake 
Of  her  past  oracle)  "  Sordello,  wake  ! 
God  has  conceded  two  sights  to  a  man  — 
One,  of  men's  whole  work,  time's  completed  plan, 
The  other,  of  the  minute's  work,  man's  first 
Step  to  the  plan's  completeness :  what 's  dispersed 
Save  hope  of  that  su])reme  step  which,  descried 
Earliest,  was  meant  still  to  remain  untried 
Only  to  give  you  heart  to  take  your  own 
Step,  and  tliere  stay  —  leaving  the  rest  alone  ? 
Where  is  the  vanity  ?     Why  count  as  one 
The  first  step,  with  the  last  step  ?     What  is  gone 
Except  Rome's  aery  magnificence. 
That  last  step  you  'd  take  first  ?  —  an  evidence 
You  were  God  :  be  man  now  !     Let  those  glances  fall ! 
The  basis,  the  beginning  step  of  all, 
Which  })roves  you  just  a  man  —  is  that  gone  too  ? 
Pity  to  disconcert  one  versed  as  you 
In  fate's  ill-nature  !   but  its  full  extent 
Eludes  Sordello,  even  :  the  veil  rent, 
Read  the  black  writing  —  that  collective  man 
Outstrips  the  individual !      Who  began 
The  acknowledged  greatnesses  ?    Ay,  your  own  art 
Shall  serve  us  :  put  the  poet's  mimes  apart  — 
Close  with  the  ])oet's  self,  and  lo,  a  dim 
Yet  too  plain  form  divides  itself  from  him  ! 


EACH  SERIES  OF  WORKMEN  SEEMS  THE  LAST    287 

Alcamo's  song  enmeshes  the  killed  Isle, 

AVoven  into  the  echoes  left  erewhile 

By  Nina,  one  soft  web  of  song  :  no  more 

Turning  his  name,  then,  Hower-like  o'er  and  o'er  ! 

An  elder  poet  in  the  younger's  place  ; 

Nina's  the  strength,  but  Alcamo's  the  grace : 

Each  neutralizes  each  then  I     Search  your  fill ; 

You  get  no  whole  and  perfect  Poet  —  still 

New  Ninas,  Alcamos,  till  time's  mid-night 

Shrouds  all  —  or  better  say,  the  shutting  light 

Of  a  forgotten  yesterday.     Dissect 

Every  ideal  workman  —  (to  reject 

In  favor  of  your  fearful  ignorance 

The  thousand  phantasms  eager  to  advance, 

And  point  you  but  to  those  within  your  reach)  — 

Were  you  the  first  who  brought  —  (in  modern  speech) 

The  Multitude  to  be  materialized  ? 

That  loose  eternal  unrest  —  who  devised 

An  apparition  i'  the  midst  ?     The  rout 

Was  checked,  a  breatliless  ring  was  formed  about 

That  sudden  flower  :  get  round  at  any  risk 

The  gold-rough  pointel,  silver-blazing  disk 

O'  the  lily !      Swords  across  it !     Reign  thy  reign 

And  serve  thy  frolic  service,  Charlemagne  I 

—  The  very  child  of  over-joyousness, 

Unfeeling  thence,  strong  therefore  :     Strength  by  stress 

Of  Strength  comes  of  that  forehead  confident. 

Those  widened  eyes  expecting  heart's  content, 

A  calm  as  out  of  just-quelled  noise ;  nor  swerves 

For  doubt,  the  ample  cheek  in  gracious  curves 

Abutting  on  the  upthrust  nether  lip  : 

He  wills,  how  should  he  doubt  then  ?     Ages  slip : 

Was  it  Sordello  pried  into  the  w^ork 

So  far  accomplished,  and  discovered  lurk 

A  company  amid  the  other  clans. 

Only  distinct  in  priests  for  castellans 

And  popes  for  suzerains  (their  rule  confessed 

Its  rule,  their  interest  its  interest, 

Living  for  sake  of  living  —  there  an  end,  — 

Wrapt  in  itself,  no  energy  to  spend 

In  making  adversaries  or  allies),  — 

Dived  you  into  its  capabilities 

And  dared  create,  out  of  that  sect,  a  soul 

Should  turn  a  multitude,  already  whole. 

Into  its  body  ?     Speak  plainer  !     Is  't  so  sure 

God's  church  lives  by  a  King's  investiture  ? 


288  SORDELLO 

Look  to  last  step  I     A  staggering  —  a  shock  — 

What 's  mere  sand  is  demolished,  while  the  rock 

Endures  :  a  column  of  black  fiery  dust 

Blots  heaven  —  that  help  was  jn-ematurely  thrust 

Aside,  perchance  !  —  but  the  air  clears,  nought 's  erased 

Of  the  true  outline !     Thus  much  being  firm  based, 

The  other  was  a  scaffold.     See  him  stand 

Buttressed  upon  his  mattock,  Hildebrand 

Of  the  huge  brain-mask  welded  ply  o'er  ply 

As  in  a  forge  ;  it  buries  either  eye 

White  and  extinct,  that  stupid  brow  ;  teeth  clenched, 

The  neck  tight-corded,  too,  the  chin  deep-trenched, 

As  if  a  cloud  enveloped  him  while  fought 

Under  its  shade,  grim  prizers,  thought  with  thought 

At  dead-lock,  agonizing  he,  until 

The  victor  thought  leap  radiant  up,  and  Will, 

The  slave  with  folded  arms  and  drooping  lids 

They  fought  for,  lean  forth  flame-like  as  it  bids. 

Call  him  no  flower  —  a  mandrake  of  the  earth, 

Thwarted  and  dwarfed  and  blasted  in  its  birth, 

Rather,  —  a  fruit  of  suffering's  excess. 

Thence  feeling,  therefore  stronger  :  still  by  stress 

Of  Strength,  work  Knowledge  !     Full  three  hundred  years 

Have  men  to  wear  away  in  smiles  and  tears 

Between  the  two  that  nearly  seemed  to  touch. 

Observe  you  !   quit  one  workman  and  you  clutch 

Another,  letting  both  their  trains  go  by  — 

The  actors-out  of  cither's  policy, 

Heinrich,  on  this  hand,  Otho,  Barbaross, 

Carry  the  three  Imperial  crowns  across, 

Aix'  Iron,  Milan's  Silver,  and  Rome's  Gold  — 

While  Alexander,  Innocent  uphold 

On  that,  each  Papal  key  —  but,  link  on  link, 

Why  is  it  neither  chain  betrays  a  chink  ? 

How  coalesce  the  small  and  great  ?     Alack, 

For  one  thrust  forward,  fifty  such  fall  back  ! 

Do  the  popes  coupled  there  help  Gregory 

Alone  ?     Hark  —  from  the  hermit  Peter's  cry 

At  Claremont,  down  to  the  first  serf  that  says 

Friedrich  's  no  liege  of  his  while  he  delays 

Getting  the  Pope's  curse  off  Inm  !     The  Crusade  — 

Or  trick  of  breeding  Strength  by  otlier  aid 

Than  Strength,  is  safe.     Hark  —  from  the  wild  harangue 

Of  Vimmercato,  to  the  carroch's  clang 

Yonder  !     The  League  —  or  trick  of  turning  Strength 

Against  Pernicious  Strength,  is  safe  at  length. 


IF  ASSOCIATES    TROUBLE    YOU,  STAND  OFF    289 

Yet  hark  —  from  Maiituan  Albert  making  cease 

The  fierce  ones,  to  Saint  Francis  preaching  peace 

Yonder  !     God's  Truce  —  or  trick  to  supersede 

The  very  Use  of  Strength,  is  safe.     Indeed 

We  trench  upon  the  future.     Who  is  found 

To  take  next  step,  next  age  —  trail  o'er  the  ground  — 

Shall  I  say,  gourd-like  ?  —  not  the  flower's  display 

Nor  the  root's  prowess,  but  the  plenteous  way 

O'  the  plant  —  produced  by  joy  and  sorrow,  whence 

Unfeeling  and  yet  feeling,  strongest  thence  ? 

Knowledge  by  stress  of  merely  Knowledge  ?     No  — 

E'en  were  Sordello  ready  to  forego 

His  life  for  this,  't  were  overleaping  work 

Some  one  has  first  to  do,  howe'er  it  irk, 

Nor  stray  a  foot's  breadth  from  the  beaten  road. 

Who  means  to  help  must  still  support  the  load 

Hildebrand  lifted  — '  why  hast  Thou,'  he  groaned, 

'  Imposed  on  me  a  burden,  Paul  had  moaned, 

And  Moses  dropped  beneath  ?  '     Much  done  —  and  yet 

Doubtless  that  grandest  task  God  ever  set 

On  man,  left  much  to  do  :  at  his  arm's  wrench, 

Charlemagne's  scaffold  fell ;  but  pillars  blench 

Merely,  start  back  again  —  perchance  have  been 

Taken  for  buttresses  :  crash  every  screen, 

Hammer  the  tenons  better,  and  engage 

A  gang  about  your  work,  for  the  next  age 

Or  two,  of  Knowledge,  part  by  Strength  and  part 

By  Knowledge  !      Then,  indeed,  perchance  may  start 

Sordello  on  his  race  —  would  time  divulge 

Such  secrets  !     If  one  step's  awry,  one  bulge 

Calls  for  correction  by  a  step  we  thought 

Got  over  long  since,  why,  till  that  is  wrought, 

No  progress  !     And  the  scaffold  in  its  turn 

Becomes,  its  service  o'er,  a  thing  to  sj^urn. 

Meanwhile,  if  your  half-dozen  years  of  life 

In  store,  dispose  you  to  forego  the  strife. 

Who  takes  exception  ?     Only  bear  in  mind, 

Ferrara  's  reached,  Goito  's  left  behind  : 

As  you  then  were,  as  half  yourself,  desist ! 

—  The  warrior-part  of  you  may,  an  it  list, 

Finding  real  faulchions  difiicult  to  poise. 

Fling  them  afar  and  taste  the  cream  of  joys 

By  wielding  such  in  fancy,  —  what  is  bard 

Of  you  may  spurn  the  vehicle  that  marred 

Elys  so  much,  and  in  free  fancy  glut 

His  sense,  yet  write  no  verses  —  you  have  but 


290  BORDELLO 

To  please  yourself  for  law,  and  once  could  please 
What  once  appeared  yourself,  by  dreaming  these 
Rather  than  doing  these,  in  days  gone  by. 
But  all  is  changed  the  moment  you  descry 
Mankind  as  half  yourself,  —  then,  fancy's  trade 
Ends  once  and  always  :  how  may  half  evade 
The  other  half  ?  men  are  found  half  of  you. 
Out  of  a  thousand  helps,  just  one  or  two 
Can  be  accomplished  jjresently  :   but  flinch 
From  these  (as  from  the  faulchion,  raised  an  inch, 
Elys,  described  a  couplet)  and  make  proof 
Of  fancy,  —  then,  while  one  half  lolls  aloof 
I'  the  vines,  comjjleting  Rome  to  the  tip-top  — 
See  if,  for  that,  your  other  half  will  stop 
A  tear,  begin  a  smile  !     The  rabble's  woes, 
Ludicrous  in  their  patience  as  they  chose 
To  sit  about  their  town  and  quietly 
Be  slaughtered,  —  the  poor  reckless  soldiery, 
With  their  ignoble  rhymes  on  Richard,  how 
*  Polt-foot,'  sang  they,  '  was  in  a  pitfall  now.' 
Cheering  each  other  from  the  engine-mounts,  — 
That  crippled  sprawling  idiot  who  recounts 
How,  lopped  of  limbs,  he  lay,  stupid  as  stone, 
Till  the  pains  crept  from  out  him  one  by  one. 
And  wriggles  round  the  archers  on  his  head 
To  earn  a  morsel  of  their  chestnut  bread,  — 
And  Cino,  always  in  the  self-same  place 
Weeping  ;  beside  that  other  wretch's  case, 
Eyepits  to  ear,  one  gangrene  since  he  plied 
The  engine  in  his  coat  of  raw  sheep's  hide 
A  double  watch  in  the  noon  sun  ;  and  see 
Lucchino,  beauty,  with  the  favors  free, 
Trim  hacqueton,  spruce  beard  and  scented  hair, 
Campaigning  it  for  the  first  time  —  cut  there 
In  two  already,  boy  enough  to  crawl 
For  latter  orpine  round  the  southern  wall, 
Toma,  where  Richard  's  kept,  because  tliat  whore 
Marfisa,  the  fool  never  saw  before, 
Sickened  for  flowers  this  wearisomest  siege  : 
And  Tiso's  wife  —  men  liked  their  j^retty  liege, 
Cared  for  her  least  of  whims  once,  —  Berta,  wed 
A  twelvemonth  gone,  and,  now  poor  Tiso  's  dead, 
Delivering  herself  of  his  first  child 
On  that  chance  heap  of  wet  filth,  reconciled 
To  fifty  gazers  I  "  —  (Here  a  wind  below 
Made  moody  music  augural  of  woe 


HE    TAKES  HIS   FIRST  STEP   AS  A    GUELF    291 

From  the  pine  barrier)  — "What  if,  now  the  scene 
Draws  to  a  close,  yourself  have  really  been 

—  You,  plucking  purples  in  Goito's  moss 
Like  eclires  of  a  trabea  (not  to  cross 
Your  consul-humor)  or  dry  aloe-shafts 
For  fasces,  at  Ferrara  —  he,  fate  wafts, 
This  very  age,  her  whole  inheritance 

Of  opportunities  ?     Yet  you  advance 
Upon  the  last !     Since  talking  is  your  trade, 
There  's  Sallnguerra  left  you  to  persuade  : 
Fail!  then"  — 

"  No  —  no  —  which  latest  chance  secure !  '* 
Leaped  up  and  cried  Sordello  :   "  this  made  sure. 
The  past  were  yet  redeemable  ;  its  work 
"Was  —  help  the  Guelfs,  whom  I,  howe'er  it  irk. 
Thus  help  I  "     He  shook  the  foolish  aloe-haulm 
Out  of  his  doublet,  paused,  proceeded  calm 
To  the  appointed  presence.     The  large  head 
Turned  on  its  socket ;  "  And  your  spokesman,"  said 
The  large  voice,  "  is  Elcorte's  happy  sprout  ? 
Few  such  "  —  (so  finishing  a  speech  no  doubt 
Addressed  to  Palma,  silent  at  his  side) 
"  —  My  sober  councils  have  diversified. 
Elcorte's  son  I  good  :  forward  as  you  may, 
Our  lady's  minstrel  with  so  much  to  say  !  " 
The  hesitating  sunset  floated  back, 
Rosily  traversed  in  the  wonted  track 
The  chamber,  from  the  lattice  o'er  the  girth 
Of  pines,  to  the  huge  eagle  blacked  in  earth 
Opposite,  —  outlined  sudden,  spur  to  crest, 
That  solid  Salinguerra,  and  caressed 
Palma's  contour  ;  't  was  day  looped  back  night's  pall ; 
Sordello  had  a  chance  left  spite  of  all. 

And  much  he  made  of  the  convincing  speech 
Meant  to  compensate  for  the  past  and  reach 
Through  his  youth's  daybreak  of  unprofit,  quite 
To  his  noon's  labor,  so  proceed  till  night 
Leisurely  !     The  great  argument  to  bind 
Taurello  with  the  Guelf  Cause,  body  and  mind, 

—  Came  the  consummate  rhetoric  to  that  ? 
Y^'et  most  Sordello's  argument  dropped  flat 
Through  his  accustomed  fault  of  breaking  yoke. 
Disjoining  him  who  felt  from  him  who  spoke. 
Was  't  not  a  touching  incident  —  so  prompt 

A  rendering  the  world  its  just  accompt, 

Once  proved  its  debtor  ?     Wlio  'd  suppose,  before 


292  SORDELLO 

This  proof,  that  he,  Goito's  god  of  yore, 

At  duty's  instance  could  demean  himself 

So  memorably,  dwindle  to  a  Guelf  ? 

Be  sure,  in  such  delicious  flattery  steeped. 

His  inmost  self  at  the  out-portion  peeped, 

Thus  occupied  ;  then  stole  a  glance  at  those 

Appealed  to,  curious  if  her  color  rose 

Or  his  lip  moved,  while  he  discreetly  urged 

The  need  of  Lombardy  becoming  purged 

At  soonest  of  her  barons  ;  the  poor  part 

Abandoned  thus,  missing  the  blood  at  heart 

And  spirit  in  brain,  unseasonably  off 

Elsewhere !     But,  though  his  speech  was  worthy  scoff, 

Good  humored  Salinouerra,  famed  for  tact 

And  tongue,  w^ho,  careless  of  his  phrase,  ne'er  lacked 

The  right  phrase,  and  harangued  Honorius  dumb 

At  his  accession,  —  looked  as  all  fell  plumb 

To  purpose  and  himself  found  interest 

In  every  point  his  new  instructor  pressed 

—  Left  playing  with  the  rescript's  white  wax  seal 

To  scrutinize  Sordello  head  and  heel. 

He  means  to  yield  assent  sure  ?     No,  alas  I 

All  he  replied  was,  "  What,  it  comes  to  pass 

That  poesy,  sooner  than  politics, 

]\Iakes  fade  young  hair  ?  "     To  think  such  speech  could  fix 

Taurello ! 

Then  a  flash  of  bitter  truth  : 
So  fantasies  could  break  and  fritter  youth 
That  he  had  long  ago  lost  earnestness. 
Lost  will  to  work,  lost  power  to  even  express 
The  need  of  working!     Earth  was  turned  a  grave : 
No  more  occasions  now.  though  he  should  crave 
Just  one,  in  right  of  superhuman  toll, 
To  do  what  was  undone,  i-epalr  such  spoil. 
Alter  the  past  —  nothing  w^ould  give  the  chance  I 
Not  that  he  was  to  die ;  he  saw  askance 
Protract  the  ignominious  years  beyond 
To  dream  in  —  time  to  hope  and  time  desjDond, 
Remember  and  forget,  be  sad,  rejoice 
As  saved  a  trouble  ;  he  might,  at  his  choice, 
One  way  or  other,  idle  life  out,  droj) 
No  few  smooth  verses  by  the  way  —  for  prop, 
A  thyrsus,  these  sad  people,  all  the  same. 
Should  pick  up,  and  set  store  by.  — far  from  blame, 
Plant  o'er  his  hearse,  convinced  his  better  part 
Survived  him.     "  Rather  tear  men  out  the  heart 


SCORN  FLINGS   COLD    WATEll   IN  HIS   FACE      293 

O'  the  truth  !  "  —  Sovdello  iimtterecl,  and  renewed 
His  propositions  for  tlie  Muhitude. 

But  SaHnguerra,  who  at  this  attack 
Had  thrown  great  breast  and  ruffling  corslet  back 
To  hear  the  better,  smilingly  resumed 
His  task ;  beneath,  the  carroch's  warning  boomed  ; 
He  must  decide  with  Tito  ;  courteously 
He  turned  then,  even  seeming  to  agree 
With  his  admonisher  —  "  Assist  tlie  Pope, 
Extend  Guelf  domination,  fill  the  scope 
O'  the  Church,  thus  based  on  All,  by  All,  for  All  — 
Chanije  Secular  to  Evano-elical  "  — 
Echoing  his  very  sentence  :  all  seemed  lost, 
When  suddenly  he  looked  up,  laughingly  almost, 
To  Palma :   "  This  oijinion  of  your  friend's  — 
For  instance,  would  it  answer  Palma' s  ends  ? 
Best,  were  it  not,  turn  Guelf,  submit  our  Strength  "  — 
(Here  he  drew  out  his  baldric  to  its  length) 

—  "  To  the  Pope's  Knowledge  —  let  our  captive  slip, 
Wide  to  the  walls  throw  ope  our  gates,  equip 

Azzo  with  .   .  .  what  I  hold  here  !     Who  '11  subscribe 
To  a  trite  censure  of  the  minstrel  tribe 
Henceforward  ?  or  pronounce,  as  Heinrich  used, 
'  Spear-heads  for  battle,  burr-heads  for  the  joust !  ' 

—  When  Constance,  for  his  couplets,  would  promote 
Alcamo,  from  a  parti-colored  coat, 

To  holding  her  lord's  stirrup  in  the  wars. 
Not  that  I  see  where  couplet-making  jars 
With  common  sense  :   at  Mantua  I  had  borne 
This  chanted,  better  than  their  most  forlorn 
Of  bull-baits,  —  that 's  indisputable  I  " 

Brave ! 
Whom  vanity  nigh  slew,  contempt  shall  save  ! 
All 's  at  an  end  :  a  Troubadour  suppose 
Mankind  will  class  him  with  their  friends  or  foes  ? 
A  puny  uncouth  ailing  vassal  think 
The  world  and  him  bound  in  some  special  link  ? 
Abrupt  the  visionary  tether  burst. 
What  were  rewarded  here,  or  what  amerced 
If  a  poor  drudge,  solicitous  to  dream 
Deservingly,  got  tangled  by  his  theme 
So  far  as  to  conceit  the  knack  or  gift 
Or  whatsoe'er  it  be,  of  verse,  might  lift 
The  globe,  a  lever  like  the  hand  and  head 
Of  —  "  Men  of  Action,"  as  the  Jongleurs  said, 

—  "  The  Great  Men,"  in  the  people's  dialect  ? 


294  SORDELLO 

And  not  a  moment  did  this  scorn  affect 
Sordello  :   scorn  the  poet  ?     They,  for  once, 
Asking  "  what  was,"  obtained  a  full  response. 
Bid  Naddo  think  at  Mantua,  he  had  but 
To  look  into  his  promptuary,  put 
Finger  on  a  set  thought  in  a  set  speech : 
But  was  Sordello  fitted  thus  for  each 
Conjecture  ?     Nowise  ;  since  within  his  soul, 
Perception  brooded  unexpressed  and  whole. 
A  healthy  spirit  like  a  healthy  frame 
Craves  aliment  in  plenty  —  all  the  same. 
Changes,  assimilates  its  aliment. 
Perceived  Sordello,  on  a  truth  intent  ? 
Next  day  no  formularies  more  you  saw 
Than  figs  or  olives  in  a  sated  maw. 
'T  is  Knowledge,  v/hither  such  perceptions  tend  ; 
They  lose  themselves  in  that,  means  to  an  end, 
The  many  old  producing  some  one  new, 
A  last  unlike  the  first.     If  lies  are  true, 
The  Caliph's  wheel-work  man  of  brass  receives 
A  meal,  munched  millet  grains  and  lettuce  leaves 
Together  in  his  stomach  rattle  loose  ; 
You  find  them  perfect  next  day  to  produce 
But  ne'er  expect  the  man,  on  strength  of  that. 
Can  roll  an  iron  camel-collar  flat 
Like  Haroun's  self  I     I  tell  you,  what  was  stored 
Bit  by  bit  through  Sordello's  life,  outpoured 
That  eve,  was,  for  that  age,  a  novel  thing  : 
And  round  those  three  the  People  formed  a  ring, 
Of  visionary  judges  whose  award 
He  recognized  in  full  — faces  that  barred 
Henceforth  return  to  the  old  careless  life. 
In  whose  great  presence,  therefore,  his  first  strife 
For  their  sake  must  not  be  ignobly  fought ; 
All  these,  for  once,  approved  of  him,  he  thought. 
Suspended  their  own  vengeance,  chose  await 
The  issue  of  this  strife  to  reinstate 
Them  in  the  right  of  taking  it  —  in  fact 
He  must  be  proved  king  ere  tliey  could  exact 
Vengeance  for  such  king's  defalcation.     Last, 
A  reason  why  the  phrases  flowed  so  fast 
Was  in  his  quite  forgetting  for  a  time 
Himself  in  his  amazement  that  the  rhyme 
Disguised  the  royalty  so  mucli :  he  there  — 
And  Salinguerra  yet  all  unaware 
Who  was  the  lord,  who  liegeman  I 


HE  ASSERTS  THE  POET  S  RANK  AND  RIGHT    295 

"  Thus  I  lay 
On  thine  my  spirit  and  compel  obey 
His  lord,  —  my  liegeman,  —  impotent  to  build 
Another  Rome,  but  hardly  so  unskilled 
In  what  such  builder  should  have  been,  as  brook 
One  shame  beyond  the  charge  that  I  forsook 
His  function  !      Free  me  from  that  shame,  I  bend 
A  brow  before,  suppose  new  years  to  spend,  — 
Allow  each  chance,  nor  fruitlessly,  recur  — 
Measure  thee  with  the  Minstrel,  then,  demur 
At  any  crowd  he  claims  !     That  I  must  cede 
Shamed  now,  my  right  to  my  especial  meed  — 
Confess  thee  fitter  help  the  world  than  I 
Ordained  its  champion  from  eternity, 
Is  much :   but  to  behold  thee  scorn  the  post 
I  quit  in  thy  behalf  —  to  hear  thee  boast 
What  makes  my  own  despair  !  "     And  while  he  rung 
The  changes  on  this  theme,  the  roof  up-sprung, 
The  sad  walls  of  the  presence-chamber  died 
Into  the  distance,  or  embowering  vied 
With  far-away  Goito's  vine-frontier ; 
And  crowds  of  faces  —  (only  keeping  clear 
The  rose-light  in  the  midst,  his  vantage-ground 
To  fight  their  battle  from)  —  deep  clustered  round 
Sordello,  with  good  wishes  no  mere  breath. 
Kind  prayers  for  him  no  vapor,  since,  come  death, 
Come  life,  he  was  fresh  sinewed  every  joint, 
Each  bone  new-marrowed  as  whom  gods  anoint 
Though  mortal  to  their  rescue.     Now  let  sprawl 
The  snaky  volumes  hither  !     Is  Typhon  all 
For  Hercules  to  trample  —  good  report 
From  Salinguerra  only  to  extort  ? 

'*  So  was  I  "  (closed  he  his  inculcating, 
A  poet  must  be  earth's  essential  king) 
"  So  was  I,  royal  so,  and  if  I  fail, 
'T  is  not  the  royalty,  ye  witness  quail. 
But  one  deposed  who,  caring  not  exert 
Its  proper  essence,  trifled  malapert 
With  accidents  instead  —  good  things  assigned 
As  heralds  of  a  better  thing  behind  — 
And,  worthy  through  display  of  these,  jiut  forth 
Never  the  inmost  all-surpassing  worth 
That  constitutes  him  king  precisely  since 
As  yet  no  other  spirit  may  evince 
Its  like  :  the  power  he  took  most  pride  to  test, 
Whereby  all  forms  of  life  had  been  professed 


296  SORDELLO 

At  pleasure,  forms  already  on  the  earth, 

Was  but  a  means  to  power  beyond,  whose  birth 

Should,  in  its  novelty,  be  kingship's  proof. 

Now,  whether  he  came  near  or  kept  aloof 

The  several  forms  he  longed  to  imitate. 

Not  there  the  kingshijD  lay,  he  sees  too  late. 

Those  forms,  unalterable  first  as  last, 

Proved  him  her  copier,  not  the  protojjlast 

Of  nature  :  what  would  come  of  being  free, 

By  action  to  exhibit  tree  for  tree. 

Bird,  beast,  for  beast  and  bird,  or  prove  earth  bore 

One  veritable  man  or  woman  more  ? 

Means  to  an  end,  such  proofs  are :  what  the  end  ? 

Let  essence,  whatsoe'er  it  be,  extend  — 

Never  contract.     Already  you  include 

The  multitude  ;  then  let  the  multitude 

Include  yourself  ;  and  the  result  were  new  : 

Themselves  before,  the  multitude  turn  you. 

This  were  to  live  and  move  and  have,  in  them, 

Your  being,  and  secure  a  diadem 

You  should  transmit  (because  no  cycle  yearns 

Beyond  itself,  but  on  itself  returns) 

When,  the  full  sphere  in  wane,  the  world  o'erlaid 

Long  since  with  you,  shall  have  in  turn  obeyed 

Some  orb  still  prouder,  some  displayer,  still 

More  potent  than  the  last,  of  human  will. 

And  some  new  king  depose  the  old.      Of  such 

Am  I  —  whom  pride  of  this  elates  too  much  ? 

Safe,  rather  say,  'mid  troops  of  peers  again  ; 

I,  with  my  words,  hailed  brother  of  the  train 

Deeds  once  sufficed  :  for,  let  the  world  roll  back, 

Who  fails,  through  deeds  howe'er  diverse,  re-track 

My  purpose  still,  my  task  ?     A  teeming  crust  — 

Air,  flame,  earth,  wave  at  conflict !     Then,  needs  must 

Emerge  some  Calm  embodied,  these  refer 

The  brawl  to  ;  —  yellow-bearded  Jupiter  ? 

No  !     Saturn  ;  some  existence  like  a  pact 

And  protest  against  Chaos,  some  first  fact 

I'  the  faint  of  time.     My  deep  of  life,  I  know, 

Is  unavailing  e'en  to  poorly  show  "... 

(For  here  the  Chief  immeasurably  yawned) 

.  .   .   •'  Deeds  in  their  due  gradation  till  Song  dawned  - 

The  fullest  effluence  of  the  finest  mind. 

All  in  degree,  no  way  diverse  in  kind 

From  minds  about  it,  minds  which,  more  or  less, 

Lofty  or  low,  move  seeking  to  impress 


THE  POETS  DIGNITY  IN  SUCCESSIVE  FORMS     297 

Themselves  on  somewhat ;  but  one  mind  has  climbed 

Step  after  step,  by  just  ascent  sublimed. 

Thought  is  the  soul  of  act,  and,  stage  by  stage, 

Soul  is  from  body  still  to  disengage 

As  tending  to  a  freedom  which  rejects 

Such  help  and  incorporeally  affects 

The  world,  producing  deeds  but  not  by  deeds. 

Swaying,  in  others,  frames  itself  exceeds, 

Assigning  them  the  simpler  tasks  it  used 

To  j)atiently  perform  till  Song  produced 

Acts,  by  thoughts  only,  for  the  mind  :  divest 

Mind  of  e'en  Thought,  and,  lo,  God's  unexpressed 

Will  draws  above  us  !     All  then  is  to  win 

Save  that.     How  much  for  me,  then  ?  where  begins 

My  work  ?     About  me,  faces  !  and  they  flock, 

The  earnest  faces.      What  shall  I  unlock 

By  song  ?  behold  me  prompt,  whate'er  it  be. 

To  minister  :  how  much  can  mortals  see 

Of  Life  ?     No  more  than  so  ?     I  take  the  task 

And  marshal  you  Life's  elemental  masque. 

Show  Men,  on  evil  or  on  good  lay  stress, 

This  light,  this  shade  make  prominent,  suppress 

All  ordinary  hues  that  softening  blend 

Such  natures  with  the  level.     Apprehend 

Which  sinner  is,  which  saint,  if  I  allot 

Hell,  Purgatory,  Heaven,  a  blaze  or  blot. 

To  those  you  doubt  concerning !     I  enworab 

Some  wretched  Friedrich  with  his  red-hot  tomb ; 

Some  dubious  spirit,  Lombard  Agilulph 

W^ith  the  black  chastening  river  I  engulf ! 

Some  unapproached  Matilda  I  enshrine 

With  languors  of  the  planet  of  decline  — 

These,  fail  to  recosfnize,  to  arbitrate 

Between  henceforth,  to  rightly  estimate 

Thus  marshalled  in  the  masque  !     Myself,  the  while. 

As  one  of  you,  am  witness,  shrink  or  smile 

At  my  own  showing  !     Next  age  —  what 's  to  do  ? 

The  men  and  women  stationed  liitherto 

W^ill  I  unstation,  good  and  bad,  conduct 

Each  nature  to  its  farthest,  or  obstruct 

At  soonest,  in  the  world  :  light,  thwarted,  breaks 

A  limpid  purity  to  rainbow  flakes. 

Or  shadow,  massed,  freezes  to  gloom  :  behold 

How  such,  with  fit  assistance  to  unfold. 

Or  obstacles  to  crush  them,  disengage 

Their  forms,  love,  hate,  hope,  fear,  peace  make,  war  wage, 


298  SORDELLO 

In  presence  of  you  all  I     Myself,  implied 

Superior  now,  as,  by  the  platform's  side, 

I  bade  them  do  and  suffer,  —  would  last  content 

The  world  ...  no  —  that 's  too  far  I     I  circumvent 

A  few,  my  masque  contented,  and  to  these 

Offer  unveil  the  last  of  mysteries  — 

Man's  inmost  life  shall  have  yet  freer  play  : 

Once  more  I  cast  external  things  away, 

And  natures  composite,  so  decompose 

That"  .  .  .  Why,  he  writes  Sordello I 

"  How  I  rose, 
And  how  have  you  advanced  !   since  evermore 
Yourselves  effect  what  I  was  fain  before 
Effect,  what  I  supplied  yourselves  suggest. 
What  I  leave  bare  yourselves  can  now  invest. 
How  we  attain  to  talk  as  brothers  talk. 
In  half-words,  call  things  by  half-names,  no  balk 
From  discontinuing  old  aids.    To-day 
Takes  in  account  the  work  of  Yesterday 
Has  not  the  world  a  Past  now,  its  adept 
Consults  ere  he  dispense  with  or  accept 
New  aids  ?  a  single  touch  more  may  enhance, 
A  touch  less  turn  to  insignificance 
Those  structures'  symmetry  the  past  has  strewed 
The  world  with,  once  so  bare.     Leave  the  mere  rude 
ExjDlicit  details  !   't  is  but  brother's  speech 
We  need,  speech  where  an  accent's  change  gives  each 
The  other's  soul  —  no  speech  to  understand 
By  former  audience  :  need  was  then  to  expand. 
Expatiate  —  hardly  were  we  brothers  !  true  — 
Nor  I  lament  my  small  remove  from  you, 
Nor  reconstruct  what  stands  already.     Ends 
Accomplished  turn  to  means  :   my  art  intends 
New  structure  from  the  ancient :  as  they  changed 
The  spoils  of  every  clime  at  Venice,  ranged 
The  horned  and  snouted  Libyan  god,  upright 
As  in  his  desert,  by  some  simple  bright 
Clay  cinerary  pitcher  —  Thebes  as  Rome, 
Athens  as  Byzant  rifled,  till  their  Dome 
From  earth's  rejiuted  consunmiations  razed 
A  seal,  the  all-transmuting  Triad  blazed 
Above.     Ah,  whose  that  fortune  ?     Ne'ertheless 
E'en  he  must  stoop  contented  to  express 
No  tithe  of  what 's  to  say  —  the  vehicle 
Never  sufficient :  but  his  work  is  still 
For  faces  like  the  faces  that  select 


SALINGUERRA    ENLIGHTENS  SORDELLO      299 

The  single  service  I  am  bound  effect,  — 

That  bid  nie  cast  aside  such  fancies,  bow 

Taurello  to  the  Guelf  cause,  disaUow 

The  Kaiser's  coming  —  which  with  heart,  soul,  strength, 

I  labor  for,  this  eve,  who  feel  at  length 

My  past  career's  outrageous  vanity, 

And  would,  as  its  amends,  die,  even  die 

Now  I  first  estimate  the  boon  of  life, 

If  deatli  might  win  compliance  —  sure,  this  strife 

Is  right  for  once  —  the  People  my  support." 

My  poor  Sordello  !   what  may  we  extort 
By  this,  I  wonder  ?     Palma's  lighted  eyes 
Turned  to  Taurello  who,  long  past  surprise, 
Began,  "  You  love  him  —  what  you  'd  say  at  large 
Let  me  say  briefly.     First,  your  father's  charge 
To  me,  liis  friend,  peruse :  I  guessed  indeed 
You  were  no  stranger  to  the  course  decreed. 
He  bids  me  leave  his  children  to  the  saints : 
As  for  a  certain  project,  he  acquaints 
The  Pope  with  that,  and  offers  him  the  best 
Of  your  possessions  to  permit  the  rest 
Go  peaceably  — to  Ecelin,  a  stripe 
Of  soil  the  cursed  Vicentines  will  gripe, 
—  To  Alberic,  a  patch  the  Trevisan 
Clutches  already  ;  extricate,  who  can, 
Treville,  Villarazzi,  Puissolo, 
Cartiglione,  Loria  I  —  all  go. 

And  with  them  go  my  hopes.     'T  is  lost,  then  !     Lost 
This  eve,  our  crisis,  and  some  pains  it  cost 
Procuring  ;  thirty  years  —  as  good  I  'd  spent 
Like  our  admonisher  !     But  each  his  bent 
Pursues  :  no  question,  one  might  live  absurd 
Oneself  this  while,  by  deed  as  he  by  word 
Persisting  to  obtrude  an  influence  where 
'Tis  made  account  of,  much  as  .  .  .  nay,  you  fare 
With  twice  the  fortune,  youngster  !  —  I  submit, 
Hap})y  to  parallel  my  waste  of  wit 
With  the  renowned  Sordello's  :  you  decide 
A  course  for  me,     Romano  may  abide 
Romano,  —  Bacchus  !     After  all,  what  dearth 
Of  Ecelins  and  Alberics  on  earth  ? 
Say  there  's  a  prize  in  pros])ect,  must  disgrace 
Betide  competitors,  unless  they  style 
Themselves  Romano  ?     Were  it  worth  my  while 
To  try  my  own  luck !     But  an  obscure  place 
Suits  me  —  there  wants  a  youth  to  bustle,  stalk 


300  SORDELLO 

And  attitudinize  —  some  fight,  more  talk, 

Most  flaunting  badges  —  how,  I  might  make  clear 

Since  Friedrich's  very  purposes  lie  here 

—  Here,  pity  they  are  like  to  lie  !     For  me. 
With  station  fixed  unceremoniously 

Long  since,  small  use  contesting ;   I  am  but 

The  liegeman  —  you  are  born  the  lieges  —  shut 

That  gentle  mouth  now !   or  resume  your  kin 

In  your  sweet  self  ;  were  Palma  Ecelin 

For  me  to  work  with  !     Could  that  neck  endure 

This  bauble  for  a  cumbrous  garniture, 

She  should  ...  or  might  one  bear  it  for  her  ?     Stay  — 

I  have  not  been  so  flattered  many  a  day 

As  by  your  pale  friend  —  Bacchus  !      The  least  help 

Would  lick  the  hind's  fawn  to  a  lion's  whelp  — 

His  neck  is  broad  enough  —  a  ready  tongue 

Beside  —  too  writhled  —  but,  the  main  thing,  young  — 

I  could  .  .  .  why,  look  ye !  " 

And  the  badge  was  thrown 
Across  Sordello's  neck  :     "  This  badge  alone 
Makes  you  Romano's  Head  —  becomes  superb 
On  your  bare  neck,  which  would,  on  mine,  disturb 
The  jjauldron,"  said  Taurello.     A  mad  act, 
Nor  even  dreamed  about  before  —  in  fact, 
Not  when  his  sportive  arm  rose  for  the  nonce  — 
But  he  had  dallied  overmuch,  this  once. 
With  power  :  the  thing  was  done,  and  he,  aware 
The  thing  was  done,  proceeded  to  declare  — 
(So  like  a  nature  made  to  serve,  excel 
In  serving,  only  feel  by  service  well ! ) 

—  That  he  would  make  Sordello  that  and  more. 
"  As  good  a  scheme  as  any.     What 's  to  pore 

At  in  my  face  ?  "  he  asked  —  "  ponder  instead 
This  piece  of  news ;  you  are  Romano's  Head  ! 
One  cannot  slacken  pace  so  near  the  goal. 
Suffer  my  Azzo  to  escape  heart-whole 
This  time  !     For  you  there  's  Palma  to  espouse  — 
For  me,  one  crowning  trouble  ere  I  house 
Like  my  compeer." 

On  which  ensued  a  strange 
And  solemn  visitation  ;  there  came  change 
O'er  every  one  of  them  ;  each  looked  on  each  : 
Up  in  the  midst  a  truth  grew,  without  speech. 
And  when  the  giddiness  sank  and  the  haze 
Subsided,  they  were  sitting,  no  amaze, 
Sordello  with  the  baldric  on,  his  sire 


SORDELLO  DECLARED  SALINGUERRA' S  SON     301 

Silent,  though  liis  proportions  seemed  aspire 

INIoniently  ;  and,  interpreting  the  thrill 

Right  at  its  ebb,  Palnia  was  found  there  still 

Relating  somewhat  Adelaide  confessed 

A  year  ago,  while  dying  on  her  breast,  — 

Of  a  contrivance  that  Vicenza  night, 

When  P2celin  had  birth.      "  Their  convoy's  flight, 

Cut  otf  a  moment,  coiled  inside  the  flame 

That  wallowed  like  a  dragon  at  his  game 

The  toi)pling  city  through  —  San  Biagio  rocks ! 

And  wounded  lies  in  her  delicious  locks 

Retrude,  the  frail  mother,  on  her  face, 

None  of  her  wasted,  just  in  one  em])race 

Covering  her  child  :  when,  as  they  lifted  her, 

Cleaving  the  tumult,  mighty,  mightier 

And  mightiest  Taurello's  cry  outbroke, 

Leapt  like  a  tongue  of  fire  that  cleaves  the  smoke, 

Midmost  to  cheer  his  Mantuans  onward  —  drown 

His  colleague  Ecelin's  clamor,  up  and  down 

The  disarray  :  failed  Adelaide  see  then 

Who  was  the  natural  chief,  the  man  of  men  ? 

Outstripping  time,  her  infant  there  burst  swathe, 

Stood  up  with  eyes  haggard  beyond  the  scathe 

From  wandering  after  his  heritage 

Lost  once  and  lost  for  aye  —  and  wdiy  that  rage, 

That  deprecating  glance  ?     A  new  shape  leant 

On  a  familiar  shape  —  gloatingly  bent 

O'er  his  discomfiture  ;   'mid  wreaths  it  wore, 

Still  one  outflamed  the  rest  —  her  child's  before 

'T  was  Salinguerra's  for  his  child  :  scorn,  hate, 

Ras^e  startled  her  from  EceKn  —  too  late! 

Then  was  the  moment !  —  rival's  foot  had  spurned 

Never  that  brow  to  earth !     Ere  sense  returned  — 

The  act  conceived,  adventured  and  complete, 

They  bore  away  to  an  obscure  retreat 

Mother  and  child  —  Retrude's  self  not  slain  " 

(Nor  even  here  Taurello  moved)  "though  pain 

Was  fled  ;  and  what  assured  them  most 't  was  fled. 

All  pain,  was,  if  they  raised  the  pale  hushed  head 

'T  would  turn  this  way  and  that,  waver  awhile, 

And  only  settle  into  its  old  smile  — 

(Graceful  as  the  disquieted  water-flag 

Steadying  itself,  remarked  they,  in  tlie  quag 

On  either  side  their  path)  —  when  suffeied  1  jok 

Down  on  her  child.     They  marched  :  no  sign  once  shook 

The  company's  close  litter  of  crossed  si)ears 


9 


02  SORDELLO 

Till,  as  they  reached  Goito,  a  few  tears 

Slipped  in  the  sunset  from  her  long  black  lash, 

And  she  was  gone.     So  far  the  action  rash  ; 

No  crime.     They  laid  Retrude  in  the  font, 

Taurello's  very  gift,  her  child  was  wont 

To  sit  beneath  —  constant  as  eve  he  came 

To  sit  by  its  attendant  girls  the  same 

As  one  of  them.     For  Palma,  she  would  blend 

With  this  magnific  spirit  to  the  end, 

That  ruled  her  first ;  but  scarcely  had  she  dared 

To  disobey  the  Adelaide  who  scared 

Her  into  vowing  never  to  disclose 

A  secret  to  her  husband,  which  so  froze 

His  blood  at  half-recital,  she  contrived 

To  hide  from  hira  Taurello's  infant  lived, 

Lest,  by  revealing  that,  himself  should  mar 

Romano's  fortunes.     And,  a  crime  so  far, 

Palma  received  that  action  :  she  was  told 

Of  Salinguerra's  nature,  of  his  cold 

Calm  acquiescence  in  his  lot !     But  free 

To  impart  the  secret  to  Romano,  she 

Engaged  to  repossess  Sordello  of 

His  heritage,  and  hers,  and  that  way  doff 

The  mask,  but  after  years,  long  years  :   while  now, 

Was  not  Romano's  sign-mark  on  that  brow  ?  " 

Across  Taurello's  heart  his  arms  were  locked  : 
And  when  he  did  speak  't  Avas  as  if  he  mocked 
The  minstrel,  "  who  had  not  to  move,"  he  said, 
"Nor  stir — should  fate  defraud  him  of  a  shred 
Of  his  son's  infancy  ?  much  less  his  youth  I  '" 
(Laughingly  all  this)  —  "  which  to  aid,  in  truth, 
Himself,  reserved  on  purpose,  had  not  grown 
Old,  not  too  old  —  't  was  best  they  kept  alone 
Till  now,  and  never  idly  met  till  now ;  " 

—  Then,  in  the  same  breath,  told  Sordello  how 
All  intimations  of  this  eve's  event 

AVere  lies,  for  Friedrich  must  advance  to  Trent, 
Thence  to  Verona,  then  to  Rome,  there  stop, 
Tumble  the  Church  down,  institute  a-top 
The  Alps  a  Prefecture  of  Lombardy  : 

—  "  That 's  now  !  —  no  prophesying  what  may  be 
Anon,  with  a  new  monarch  of  the  clime, 
Native  of  Gesi,  passing  his  youth's  prime 

At  Naples.     Tito  bids  my  choice  decide 
On  whom  "... 

"  Embrace  him,  madman  !  "  Palma  cried. 


HOW  SORDELLO   IS   STIRRED  BY  THE  SECRET    303 

Who  through  the  laugh  saw  sweat-drops  burst  apace, 
And  his  lii)s  blanching  :  he  did  not  embrace 
Sordello,  but  he  laid  Sordello's  hand 
On  his  own  eyes,  mouth,  forehead. 

Understand, 
This  while  Sordello  was  becomino-  flushed 
Out  of  his  whiteness  ;  thoughts  rushed,  fancies  rushed  ; 
He  pressed  his  hand  upon  his  head  and  signed 
Both  should  forbear  him.     "  Nay,  the  best 's  behind  !  " 
Taurello  laughed  —  not  quite  with  the  same  laugh : 
"  The  truth  is,  thus  we  scatter,  ay,  like  chaff 
These  Guelfs,  a  despicable  monk  recoils 
From  :  nor  expect  a  fickle  Kaiser  spoils 
Our  triumph  !  —  Friedrich  ?     Think  you,  I  intend 
Friedrich  shall  reap  the  fruits  of  blood  I  spend 
And  brain  I  waste  ?     Think  you,  the  people  clap 
Their  hands  at  my  out-hewing  this  wild  gap 
For  any  Friedrich  to  fill  up  ?     'T  is  mine  — 
That 's  yours  :  I  tell  you,  towards  some  such  design 
Have  I  worked  blindly,  yes,  and  idly,  yes, 
And  for  another,  yes  —  but  worked  no  less 
With  instinct  at  my  heart ;   I  else  had  swerved, 
While  now  —  look  round  !     My  cunning  has  j)reserved 
Samminiato  —  that  s  a  central  place 
Secures  us  Florence,  boy,  —  in  Pisa's  case. 
By  land  as  she  by  sea ;  with  Pisa  ours, 
And  Florence,  and  Pistoia,  one  devours 
The  land  at  leisure  !     Gloriously  dispersed  —  . 
Brescia,  observe,  Milan,  Piacenza  first 
That  flanked  us  (ah,  you  know  not  I)  in  the  March  j 
On  these  we  pile,  as  keystone  of  our  arch, 
Romagna  and  Bologna,  whose  first  span 
Covered  the  Trentine  and  the  Valsugan  ; 
Sofia's  Egna  by  Bolgiano  's  sure  !  "   .  . 
So  he  proceeded  :  half  of  all  this,  pure 
Delusion,  doubtless,  nor  the  rest  too  true. 
But  what  was  undone  he  felt  sure  to  do. 
As  ring  by  ring  he  wrung  off,  flung  away 
The  pauldron-rings  to  give  his  sword-arm  play  — 
Need  of  the  sword  now  !     That  would  soon  adjust 
Aught  wrong  at  present ;  to  the  sword  intrust 
Sordello's  whiteness,  undersize  :   't  was  plain 
He  hardly  rendered  right  to  his  own  brain  — 
Like  a  brave  hound,  men  educate  to  ])ride 
Himself  on  speed  or  scent  nor  aught  beside, 
As  though  he  could  not,  gift  by  gift,  match  men ! 


304  SORDELLO  I 

Palma  had  listened  patiently  :  but  when 

'T  was  time  exj^ostulate,  attempt  withdraw 

Taurello  from  his  child,  she,  without  awe 

Took  off  his  iron  arms  from,  one  by  one, 

Sordello's  shrinking  shoulders,  and,  that  done. 

Made  him  avert  his  visage  and  relieve 

Sordello  (you  might  see  his  corslet  heave 

The  while)  who,  loose,  rose  —  tried  to  speak,  then  sank  : 

They  left  him  in  the  chamber.     All  was  blank. 

And  even  reeling  down  the  narrow  stair 
Taurello  kept  up,  as  though  unaware 
Palma  was  by  to  guide  him,  the  old  device 
—  Something  of  Milan  —  "  how  we  muster  thrice 
The  Torriani's  strength  there  ;  all  along 
Our  own  Visconti  cowed  them  "  — thus  the  song 
Continued  even  while  she  bade  him  stoop, 
Thrid  somehow,  by  some  glimpse  of  arrow-loop, 
The  turnings  to  the  gallery  below, 
Where  he  stopped  short  as  Palma  let  him  go. 
When  he  had  sat  in  silence  lono-  enouoh 
Splintering  the  stone  bench,  braving  a  rebuff 
She  stopped  the  truncheon ;  only  to  commence 
One  of  Sordello's  poems,  a  pretence 
For  speaking,  some  poor  rhyme  of  ''  Elys'  hair 
And  head  that's  sharp  and  perfect  like  a  pear. 
So  smooth  and  close  are  laid  the  few  fine  locks 
Stained  like  pale  honey  oozed  from  topmost  rocks 
Sun-blanched  the  livelong  summer  "  —  from  his  worst 
Performance,  the  Goito,  as  his  first : 
And  that  at  end,  conceiving  from  the  brow 
And  open  mouth  no  silence  would  serve  now, 
Went  on  to  say  the  whole  world  loved  that  man 
And,  for  that  matter,  thought  his  face,  though  wan, 
Eclipsed  the  Count's  —  he  sucking  in  each  phrase 
As  if  an  angel  spoke.     The  foolish  praise 
Ended,  he  drew  her  on  his  mailed  knees,  made 
Her  face  a  framework  with  his  hands,  a  shade, 
A  crown,  an  aureole  :  there  must  she  remain 
(Her  little  mouth  compressed  with  smiling  pain 
As  in  his  gloves  she  felt  her  tresses  twitch) 
To  get  the  best  look  at,  in  fittest  niche 
Dispose  his  saint.     That  done,  he  kissed  her  brow, 
■ —  "  Lauded  her  father  for  his  treason  now," 
He  told  her,  "  only,  how  could  one  suspect 
The  wit  in  him?  —  whose  clansman,  recollect. 
Was  ever  Sallnguerra  —  she,  the  same. 


HE  MAY   YET  SPRING  INTO  SUCCESS        305 

Romano  and  Lis  lady  —  so,  might  claim 

To  know  all,  as  she  shonld  "  —  and  thus  begun 

Schemes  with  a  vengeance,  schemes  on  schemes,  "  not  one 

Fit  to  be  told  that  foolish  boy,"  he  said, 

'•  But  only  let  Soidello  Palma  wed, 

—  Then!" 

■  T  was  a  dim  long  narrow  place  at  best : 
Midway  a  sole  grate  showed  the  fiery  AVest, 
As  shows  its  corpse  the  world's  end  some  split  tomb  — 
A  gloom,  a  rift  of  fire,  another  gloom, 
Faced  Palma  —  but  at  length  Taurello  set 
Her  free ;  the  grating  held  one  ragged  jet 
Of  fierce  gold  fire  :  he  lifted  her  within 
The  hollow  underneath  —  how  else  begin 
Fate's  second  marvellous  cycle,  else  renew 
The  ages  than  with  Palma  plain  in  view  ? 
Then  paced  the  passage,  hands  clenched,  head  erect, 
Pursuing  his  discourse  ;  a  grand  unchecked 
Monotony  made  out  from  his  quick  talk 
And  the  recurring  noises  of  his  walk  ; 

—  Somewhat  too  much  like  the  o'ercharged  assent 
Of  two  resolved  friends  in  one  dang-er  blent. 
Who  hearten  each  the  other  against  heart ; 
Boasting  there  's  nought  to  care  for,  when,  apart 
The  boaster,  all 's  to  care  for.     He,  beside 
Some  shape  not  visible,  in  power  and  pride 
Approached,  out  of  the  dark,  ginglingly  near. 
Nearer,  passed  close  in  the  broad  light,  his  ear 
Crimson,  eyeballs  suffused,  temples  full-fraught, 
Just  a  snatch  of  the  rapid  speech  you  caught, 
And  on  he  strode  into  the  opposite  dark, 

Till  presently  the  harsh  heeFs  turn,  a  spark 
I'  the  stone,  and  whirl  of  some  loose   embossed  throng 
That  crashed  against  the  angle  aye  so  long- 
After  the  last,  punctual  to  an  amount 
Of  mailed  great  paces  you  could  not  but  count,  — 
Prepared  you  for  the  pacing  back  again. 
And  by  the  snatches  you  might  ascertain 
That,  Friedrich's  Prefecture  surmounted,  left 
By  this  alone  in  Italy,  they  cleft 
Asunder,  crushed  together,  at  command 
Of  none,  were  free  to  break  up  Hildebrand, 
Rebuild,  he  and  Sordello,  Charlemagne  — 
But  garnished.  Strength  with  Knowledge,  ''  if  we  deign 
Accept  that  compromise  and  stoop  to  give 
Rome  law,  the  Caesar's  Representative." 


306  SORDELLO 

Enough,  that  the  illimitable  flood 

Of  iriiiniph.s  after  triumphs,  understood 

In  its  faint  reflux  (you  shall  hear)  sufficed 

Young  Ecelin  for  appanage,  enticed 

Him  on  till,  these  long  quiet  in  their  graves. 

He  found  't  was  looked  for  that  a  whole  life's  braves 

Should  somehow  be  made  good  ;  so,  weak  and  worn, 

Must  stagger  up  at  Milan,  one  gray  morn 

Of  the  to-come,  and  fight  his  latest  fight. 

But,  Salinguerra's  prophecy  at  height  — 

He  voluble  with  a  raised  arm  and  stiff, 

A  blaring  voice,  a  blazing  eye,  as  if 

He  had  our  very  Italy  to  keejD 

Or  cast  away,  or  gather  in  a  heap 

To  garrison  the  better  —  ay,  his  word 

Was,  "  run  the  cucumber  into  a  gourd. 

Drive  Trent  upon  Apulia  "  —  at  their  pitch 

Who  spied  the  continents  and  islands  which 

Grew  mulberry-leaves  and  sickles,  in  the  map  — 

(Strange  that  three  such  confessions  so  should  hap 

To  Palma,  Dante  spoke  with  in  the  clear 

Amorous  silence  of  the  Swooning-sphere,  — 

Ciinizza,  as  he  called  her  !     Never  ask 

Of  Palma  more  I     She  sat,  knowing  lier  task 

Was  done,  the  labor  of  it,  —  for,  success. 

Concerned  not  Palma,  passion's  votaress) 

Triam])h  at  height,  and  thus  Sordello  crowned  — 

Al)ove  the  passage  suddenly  a  sound 

Stops  speech,  stops  walk  :  back  shrinks  Taurello,  bids 

With  large  involuntary  asking  lids, 

Palma  interpret.     "  'T  is  his  own  foot  stamp  — 

Your  hand  !      His  summons  !     Nay,  this  idle  damp 

Befits  not !  "     Out  they  two  reeled  dizzily. 

Visconti  's  strong  at  ]\Iilan,"  resumed  he. 

In  the  old,  somewhat  insignificant  way  — 

(Was  Palma  wont,  years  afterward,  to  say) 

As  though  the  spirit's  flight,  sustained  thus  far, 

Dropped  at  tliat  very  instant.     Gone  they  are  — 

Palma,  Taurello  ;   Eglamor  anon, 

Ecelin,  —  only  Naddo  's  never  gone  ! 

—  Labors,  tliis  moonrise,  what  the  Master  meant  — • 

"  Is  Squarcialupo  speckled  ?  —  purulent, 

I  'd  say,  but  when  was  Providence  put  out  ? 

He  carries  somehow  handily  about 

His  spite  nor  fouls  himself  I  "     Goito's  vuies 

Stand  like  a  cheat  detected  —  stark  rough  lines. 


AT   THE    CLOSE   OF  A    DAY  OR   A    LIFE       307 

The  moon  breaks  through,  a  gray  mean  scale  against 
The  vault  where,  this  eve's  Maiden,  thou  itmain'st 
Like  some  fresh  martyr,  eyes  fixed  —  who  can  tell  ? 
As  Heaven,  now  all 's  at  end,  did  not  so  w^ell, 
Spite  of  the  faith  and  victory,  to  leave 
Its  virgin  quite  to  death  in  the  lone  eve. 
While  the  persisting  hermit-bee  ...  ha  I   wait 
No  longer  :   these  in  compass,  forward  fate  ! 


BOOK   THE   SIXTH. 

The  thought  of  Eglamor  's  least  like  a  thought. 

And  yet  a  false  one,  was,  "  Man  shrinks  to  nought 

If  matched  with  symbols  of  immensity  ; 

Must  quail,  forsooth,  before  a  quiet  sky 

Or  sea,  too  little  for  their  quietude  :  " 

And,  truly,  somewhat  in  Bordello's  mood 

Confirmed  its  spaciousness,  while  eve  slow  sank 

Down  the  near  terrace  to  the  farther  bank, 

And  only  one  spot  left  out  of  the  night 

Glimmered  upon  the  river  opposite  — 

A  breath  of  watery  heaven  like  a  bay, 

A  sky-like  space  of  water,  ray  for  ray, 

And  star  for  star,  one  richness  where  they  mixed 

As  this  and  that  wing  of  an  angel,  fixed. 

Tumultuary  splendors  folded  in 

To  die.     Nor  turned  he  till  Ferrara's  din 

(vSay,  the  monotonous  speech  from  a  man's  lip 

Who  lets  some  first  and  eager  purpose  slij) 

In  a  new  fancy's  birth  ;  the  speech  keeps  on 

Though  elsewhere  its  informing  soul  be  gone) 

—  Aroused  him,  surely  offered  succor.     Fate 

Paused  with  this  eve  ;  ere  she  precipitate 

Herself,  —  put  off  strange  after-thoughts  awhile. 

That  voice,  those  large  hands,  that  portentous  smile, 

What  help  to  pierce  the  future  as  the  past, 

Lay  in  the  plaining  city  ? 

And  at  last 
The  main  discovery  and  prime  concern. 
All  that  just  now  imported  him  to  learn, 
His  truth,  like  yonder  slow  moon  to  complete 
Heaven,  rose  again,  and,  naked  at  his  feet. 
Lighted  his  old  life's  every  shift  and  change, 


308  SORDELLO 

Effort  with  counter-effort  ;  nor  the  range 

Of  each  looked  ^vl'ong  except  wherein  it  checked 

Some  other  —  which  of  these  could  he  suspect, 

Prying  into  them  by  the  sudden  blaze  ? 

The  real  way  seemed  made  up  of  all  the  ways  — 

Mood  after  mood  of  the  one  mind  in  him ; 

Tokens  of  the  existence,  bright  or  dim. 

Of  a  transcendent  all-embracing  sense 

Demanding  only  out:ivard  influence, 

A  soul,  in  Palma's  phrase,  above  his  soul. 

Power  to  uplift  his  power,  —  this  moon's  control 

Over  the  sea-depths,  —  and  their  mass  had  swept 

Onward  from  the  beginning  and  still  kept 

Its  course  :  but  years  and  years  the  sky  above 

Held  none,  and  so,  untasked  of  any  love. 

His  sensitiveness  idled,  now  amort, 

Alive  now,  and,  to  sullenness  or  sport 

Given  wholly  up,  disposed  itself  anew 

At  every  passing  instigation,  grew 

And  dwindled  at  caprice,  in  foam-showers  spilt, 

Wedge-like  insisting,  quivered  now  a  gilt 

Shield  in  the  sunshine,  now  a  blinding  race 

Of  whitest  ripples  o'er  the  reef  —  found  place 

For  much  display  ;  not  gathered  up  and,  hurled 

Right  from  its  heart,  encompassing  the  world. 

So  had  Surdello  been,  by  consequence, 

Without  a  function  :  others  made  pretence 

To  strength  not  half  his  own,  yet  had  some  core 

Within,  submitted  to  some  moon,  before 

Them  still,  superior  still  w^hate'er  their  force,  — 

Were  able  therefore  to  fulfil  a  course, 

Nor  missed  life's  crown,  authentic  attribute. 

To  each  who  lives  must  be  a  certain  fruit 

Of  having  lived  in  his  degree,  —  a  stage, 

Earlier  or  later  in  men's  pilgrimage. 

To  stop  at ;  and  to  this  the  spirits  tend 

Who,  still  discovering  beauty  without  end. 

Amass  the  scintillations,  make  one  star 

—  Something  unlike  them,  self-sustained,  afar,  — 

And  meanwhile  nurse  the  dream  of  being  blest 

By  winning  it  to  notice  and  invest 

Their  souls  with  alien  glory,  some  one  day 

Whene'er  the  nucleus,  gathering  shai)e  alway, 

Round  to  the  perfect  circle  —  soon  or  late, 

Accordino-  as  themselves  are  formed  to  wait ; 


STliOSa,  III-    NEEDED  EXTERNAL  STRENGTH    o09 

Whether  mere  huiiuin  beauty  will  suffice 

—  The  yellow  hair  and  the  luxurious  eyes, 
Or  human  inteUect  seem  best,  or  each 
Combine  in  some  ideal  form  past  reach 

On  earth,  or  else  sunu  shade  of  these,  some  aim, 

Some  love,  hate  even,  take  their  place,  the  same, 

And  may  be  served  —  all  this  they  do  not  lose. 

Waiting  for  death  to  live,  nor  idly  choose 

What  must  be  Hell  —  a  i)rooress  thus  pursued 

Through  all  existence,  stdl  above  the  food 

That 's  otfered  them,  stdl  towering  beyond 

The  widened  range,  in  virtue  of  their  bond 

Of  sovereignty.     Not  that  a  Palma's  Love, 

A  Salinguerra's  Hate,  would  equal  prove 

To  s\\aying  all  Sordello  :  wherefore  doubt 

That  love  meet  for  such  strength,  some  moon  without 

Would  match  his  sea  ?  —  or  fear.  Good  manifest, 

Only  the  Best  breaks  faith  ?  —  Ah  but  the  Best 

Somehow  eludes  us  ever,  still  might  be 

And  is  not !     Crave  we  gems  ?     No  penury 

Of  their  material  round  us  !     Pliant  eartli 

And  plastic  flame  —  what  balks  the  mage  his  birth 

—  Jacinth  in  balls  or  lodestone  by  the  block  ? 
Flinders  enrich  the  strand,  veins  swell  the  rock  ; 

Nought  more  !     Ask  creatures  ?     Life  's  i'  the  tempest  thought, 

Clothes  the  keen  hill-top,  mid-day  woods  are  fraught 

AYith  fervors  :  human  forms  are  well  enough ! 

But  we  had  hoped,  encouraged  by  the  stuff 

Profuse  at  nature's  pleasure,  men  beyond 

These  men  !  —  and  thus,  perchance,  are  over-fond 

In  arouinfj,  from  Good  the  Best,  from  force 

Divided  —  force  combined,  an  ocean's  course 

From  this  our  sea  whose  mere  intestine  pants 

Might  seem  at  times  sufficient  to  our  wants. 

—  External  ])ower  ?     If  none  be  adequate 
And  he  stand  forth  ordained  (a  prouder  fate) 
A  law  to  his  own  sphere  ?  —  need  to  remove 
All  incompleteness,  for  that  law,  that  love  ? 
Nay,  if  all  other  laws  be  such,  though  veiled 
In  mercy  to  each  vision  that  had  failed 

If  unassisted  by  its  want,  —  for  lure. 
Embodied  ?     Stronjxer  vision  could  endure 
Tlie  unbodied  want  :  no  bauble  for  a  truth  ! 
The  People  were  himself  ;  and,  by  the  ruth 
At  their  condition,  was  he  less  impelled 


310  SORDELLO 

To  alter  tlie  discrepancy  beheld, 

Than  if,  from  the  sound  Whole,  a  sickly  Part 

Subtracted  were  transformed,  decked  out  with  art, 

Then  palmed  on  him  as  alien  woe  —  the  Guelf 

To  succor,  proud  that  he  forsook  himself  ? 

No  I      All 's  himself  ;  all  service,  therefore,  rates 

Alike,  nor  serving  one  part,  immolates 

The  rest :  but  all  in  time  !     '•  That  lance  of  yours 

Makes  havoc  soon  with  Malek  and  his  Moors, 

That  buckler  's  lined  with  many  a  giant's  beard, 

Ere  long,  our  champion,  be  the  lance  upreared, 

The  buckler  wielded  handsomely  as  now  I 

But  view  your  escort,  bear  in  mind  your  vow. 

Count  the  pale  tracts  of  sand  to  jDass  ere  that. 

And,  if  you  hope  we  struggle  through  the  flat. 

Put  lance  and  buckler  by  I     Next  half-month  lacks 

Mere  sturdy  exercise  of  mace  and  axe 

To  cleave  this  dismal  brake  of  prickly-pear 

Which  bristling  holds  Cydippe  by  the  hair. 

Lames  barefoot  Agathon  :  this  felled,  we  '11  try 

The  picturesque  achievements  by  and  by  — 

Next  hfe  !  " 

Ay,  rally,  mock,  0  People,  urge 
Your  claims  I  —  for  thus  he  ventured,  to  the  verge, 
Push  a  vain  rnunmiery  which  perchance  distrust 
Of  his  fast-sli})ping  resolution  thrust 
Likewise  :  accordingly  the  Crowd  —  (as  yet 
He  had  unconsciously  contrived  forget, 
r  the  whole,  to  dwell  o'  the  points  .   .  .  one  might  assuage 
The  signal  horrors  easier  than  engage 
With  a  dim  vulgar  vast  unobvious  grief 
Not  to  be  fancied  off,  nor  gained  relief 
In  brilliant  fits,  cured  by  a  happy  quirk. 
But  by  dim  vulgar  vast  unobvious  work 
To  correspond  .   .   .)  — ^this  Crowd  then,  forth  they  stood. 
'  And  now  content  thy  stronger  vision,  brood 
On  thy  bare  want ;  uncovered,  turf  by  turf, 
Study  the  corpse-face  through  the  taint-worms'  scurf  !  " 

Down  sank  the  People's  Then  ;  uprose  their  Now 
These  sad  ones  render  service  to  !     And  how 
Piteously  little  must  that  service  prove 
—  Had  surely  proved  in  any  case  !  for,  move 
Eacdi  other  obstacle  away,  let  youth 
Become  aware  it  had  surprised  a  truth 
'T  were  service  to  impart  —  can  truth  be  seized, 
Settled  forthwith,  and,  of  the  captive  eased. 


WITHIN,  HIS   SYMPATHY   WITH  THE  PEOPLE     311 

Its  captor  find  fresh  prey,  since  this  alit 

Sj  happily,  no  gesture  luring  it, 

Th3  earnest  of  a  flock  to  follow  ?     Vain, 

Mast  vain  !   a  life  to  spend  ere  this  he  chain 

To  the  poor  crowd's  complacence :  ere  the  crowd 

Pronounce  it  captured,  he  descries  a  ch)ud 

Its  kin  of  twice  the  plume  ;   which  he,  in  turn, 

If  he  shall  live  as  many  lives,  may  learn 

How  to  secure  :  not  else.      Then  Mantua  called 

Back  to  his  mind  how  certain  bards  were  thralled 

—  Buds  blasted,  but  of  breath  mare  like  perfume 
Than  Naddo's  staring  nosegay's  carrion  bloom  ; 
Some  insane  rose  that  burnt  heart  out  in  sweets, 
A  spendthrift  in  the  spring,  no  summer  greets  ; 
Some  Dularete,  drunk  with  truths  and  wine. 
Grown  bestial,  dreaming  how  become  divine. 
Yet  to  surmount  this  obstacle,  commence 

With  the  commencement,  merits  crowning !      Hence 

Must  truth  be  casual  truth,  elicited 

In  sparks  so  mean,  at  intervals  dispread 

So  rarely,  that 't  is  like  at  no  one  time 

Of  the  world's  story  has  not  truth,  the  prime 

Of  truth,  the  very  truth  which,  loosed,  had  hurled 

The  world's  course  right,  been  really  in  the  world 

—  Content  the  while  with  some  mean  spark  by  dint 
Of  some  chance-blow,  the  solitary  hint 

Of  buried  fire,  which,  rip  its  breast,  would  stream 
Sky-ward  I 

Sordello's  miserable  gleam 
Was  looked  for  at  the  moment :   he  would  dash 
This  badge,  and  all  it  brought,  to  earth,  —  abash 
Taurello  thus,  perhaps  persuade  him  wrest 
The  Kaiser  from  his  purpose,  —  would  attest 
His  own  belief,  in  any  case.      Before 
He  dashes  it  however,  think  once  more  I 
For,  were  that  little,  truly  service  ?      "  Ay, 
I'  the  end,  no  doubt ;  but  meantime  ?     Plain  you  spy 
Its  ultimate  effect,  but  many  flaws 
Of  vision  blur  each  intervening  cause. 
Were  the  day's  fraction  clear  as  the  life's  sum 
Of  service,  Now  as  filled  as  the  To-come 
With  evidence  of  good  —  nor  too  minute 
A  share  to  vie  with  evil  !     No  dispute, 
'T  were  fitliest  maintain  the  Guelfs  in  rule : 
That  makes  your  life's  work  :  but  you  have  to  school 
Your  day's  work  on  these  natures  circumstanced 


312  SORDELLO 

Thus  variously,  which  yet,  as  each  advanced 
Or  might  impede  the  Guelf  rule,  must  be  moved 
Now,  for  the  Theii's  sake,  —  hating  what  you  loved, 
Loving  old  hatreds  I     Nor  if  one  man  bore 
Brand  upon  temples  while  his  fellow  wore 
The  aureole,  would  it  task  you  to  decide : 
But,  portioned  duly  out,  the  future  vied 
Never  with  the  unparcelled  present !     Smite 
Or  spare  so  much  on  warrant  all  so  slight  ? 
The  present's  complete  sympathies  to  break, 
Aversions  bear  with,  for  a  future's  sake 
So  feeble  ?     Tito  ruined  through  one  speck. 
The  Legate  saved  by  his  sole  lightish  fleck  ? 
This  were  work,  true,  but  work  performed  at  cost 
Of  other  work  ;  aught  gained  here,  elsewhere  lost. 
For  a  new  segment  spoil  an  orb  half-done  ? 
Rise  with  the  PeojDle  one  step,  and  sink  —  one  ? 
AVere  it  but  one  step,  less  than  the  whole  face 
Of  things,  your  novel  duty  bids  erase  ! 
Harms  to  abolish  !     Wliat,  the  jjrophet  saith. 
The  minstrel  singeth  vainly  then  ?     Old  faith, 
Old  courage,  only  borne  because  of  harms. 
Were  not,  from  highest  to  the  lowest,  charms  ? 
Flame  may  persist ;  but  is  not  glare  as  stanch  ? 
Where  the  salt  marshes  stagnate,  crystals  branch ; 
Blood  dries  to  crimson  ;  Evil 's  beautified 
In  every  sliape.     Thrust  Beauty  then  aside 
And  banish  Evil !      Wherefore  ?     After  all, 
Is  Evil  a  result  less  natural 
Than  Good  ?     For  overlook  the  seasons'  strife 
With  tree  and  flower, — the  hideous  animal  life, 
(Of  which  who  seeks  shall  find  a  grinning  taunt 
For  his  solution,  and  endure  the  vaunt 
Of  nature's  angel,  as  a  child  that  knows 
Himself  befooled,  unable  to  propose 
Aught  better  than  the  fooling)  —  and  but  care 
For  men,  for  the  mere  People  then  and  there,  — 
In  these,  could  you  but  see  that  Good  and  111 
Claimed  you  alike  !     Whence  rose  their  claim  but  still 
From  111,  as  fruit  of  111  ?     What  else  could  knit 
You  theirs  but  Sorrow  ?     Any  free  from  it 
Were  also  free  from  you  !     Wliose  happiness 
Could  be  distinguished  in  this  morning's  ])ress 
Of  miseries  ?  —  the  fool's  who  ])assed  a  gibe 
'  On  thee,'  jeered  he,  '  so  wedded  to  thy  tribe, 
Thou  carriest  green  and  yellow  tokens  in 


HOW  MUCH   OF  ILL   OUGHT  TO  BE  REMOVED?    313 

Thy  very  face  that  thou  art  Ghibellin  ! ' 

Much  hold  (jn  you  that  fool  obtained  !     Nay  mount 

Yet  higher  —  and  upon  men's  own  account 

Must  Evil  stay  :  for,  what  is  joy  ?  —  to  heave 

Up  one  obstruction  more,  and  common  leave 

What  was  peculiar,  by  such  act  destroy 

Itself ;  a  partial  death  is  every  joy  ; 

The  sensible  escape,  enfranchisement 

Of  a  sphere's  essence  :  once  the  vexed  —  content, 

The  cramped  —  at  large,  the  growing  circle  —  round, 

All  s  to  begin  again  —  some  novel  bound 

To  break,  some  new  enlargement  to  entreat ; 

The  sphere  though  larger  is  not  more  complete. 

Now  for  Mankind's  experience  :  who  alone 

Might  style  the  unobstructed  world  his  own  ? 

Whom  })alled  Goito  with  its  perfect  things  ? 

Sordello's  self  :  whereas  for  IMankind  springs 

Salvation  by  each  hindrance  interposed. 

They  climb  ;  life's  view  is  not  at  once  disclosed 

To  creatures  caught  up,  on  the  summit  left. 

Heaven  plain  above  them,  yet  of  wings  bereft : 

But  lower  laid,  as  at  the  mountain's  foot. 

So,  range  on  range,  the  girdling  forests  shoot 

'Twixt  your  plain  prospect  and  the  throngs  who  scale 

Height  after  height,  and  pierce  mists,  veil  by  veil. 

Heartened  with  each  discovery  ;  in  their  soul. 

The  Whole  they  seek  by  Parts  —  but,  found  that  Whole, 

Could  they  revert,  enjoy  past  gains  ?     The  space 

Of  time  you  judge  so  meagre  to  embrace 

The  Parts  were  more  than  plenty,  once  attained 

The  Whole,  to  quite  exhaust  it :  nought  were  gained 

But  leave  to  look  —  not  leave  to  do :  Beneath 

Soon  sates  the  looker —  look  Above,  and  Death 

Tempts  ere  a  tithe  of  Life  be  tasted.     Live 

First,  and  die  soon  enough,  Sordello  !      Give 

Body  and  spirit  the  first  right  they  claim, 

And  pasture  thee  on  a  voluptuous  shame 

That  thou,  a  pageant-city's  denizen. 

Art  neither  vilely  lodged  'midst  Lombard  men  — 

Canst  force  joy  out  of  sorrow,  seem  to  truck 

Thine  attributes  away  for  sordid  muck. 

Yet  manage  from  that  very  muck  educe 

Gold  ;  then  subject  nor  scruple,  to  thy  cruce 

The  world's  discardin;4S  1      Though  le.il  ingots  ])ay 

Thy  pains,  the  clods  that  yielded  them  are  clay 

To  all  save  thee,  —  would  clay  remain,  though  quenched 


314  SORDELLO 

Thy  piirging-fire  ;  who  's  robbed  then  ?    Had  you  wrenched 

An  ampler  treasure  forth  I  —  As  't  is,  they  crave 

A  share  that  ruins  you  and  will  not  save 

Them.     Why  should  sympathy  command  you  quit 

The  course  that  makes  your  joy,  nor  will  remit 

Their  woe  ?     Would  all  arrive  at  joy  ?     Reverse 

The  order  (time  instructs  you)  nor  coerce 

Each  unit  till,  some  predetermined  mode. 

The  total  be  emancipated  ;  men's  road 

Is  one,  men's  times  of  travel  many  ;  thwart 

No  enterprising  soul's  precocious  start 

Before  the  general  march !     If  slow  or  fast 

All  straggle  up  to  the  same  point  at  last, 

Why  grudge  your  having  gained,  a  month  ago, 

The  brakes  at  balm-shed,  asphodels  in  blow, 

While  they  were  landlocked?     Speed  their  Then,  but  how 

This  badge  would  suffer  you  improve  your  Now  !  " 

His  time  of  action  for,  against,  or  with 
Our  world  (I  labor  to  extract  the  jiitli 
Of  this  his  problem)  grew,  that  even-tide, 
Gigantic  with  its  power  of  joy,  beside 
The  world's  eternity  of  impotence 
To  profit  though  at  his  whole  joy's  expense. 
"  Make  nothing  of  my  day  because  so  brief  ? 
Rather  make  more  :  instead  of  joy,  use  grief 
Before  its  novelty  have  time  subside ! 
Wait  not  for  the  late  savor,  leave  untried 
Virtue,  the  creaming  honey-wine,  quick  squeeze 
Vice  like  a  biting  spirit  from  the  lees 
Of  life  !     Together  let  wrath,  hatred,  lust. 
All  tyrannies  in  every  shape,  be  thrust 
Upon  this  Now,  which  time  may  reason  out 
As  mischiefs,  far  from  benefits,  no  doubt ; 
But  long  ere  then  Sordello  will  have  slipped 
Away  ;  you  teach  him  at  Goito's  crypt. 
There  's  a  blank  issue  to  that  fiery  thrill. 
Stirring,  the  few  cope  with  the  many,  still : 
So  much  of  sand  as,  quiet,  makes  a  mass 
Unable  to  produce  three  tufts  of  grass, 
Shall,  troubled  by  the  whirlwind,  render  void 
Tiie  whole  calm  glebe's  endeavor  :  be  employed  ! 
And  e'en  though  somewhat  smart  the  Crowd  for  this. 
Contribute  each  his  i)ang  to  make  your  bliss, 
'T  is  but  one  pang  —  one  blood-drop  to  the  bowl 
Which  brimful  tem])ts  the  sluggish  asp  uncowl 
At  last,  stains  ruddily  the  dull  red  cape, 


FREE,  HE   CAN  INFINITELY  ENJOY  HIMSELF    315 

And,  kindling  orbs  gray  as  the  unripe  grape 

Before,  avails  forthwith  to  disentrance 

The  portent,  soon  to  lead  a  mystic  dance 

Among  you  I     For,  who  sits  alone  in  Rome  ? 

Have  those  great  hands  indeed  hewn  out  a  home, 

And  set  me  there  to  live  ?     Oh  life,  life-breath. 

Life-blood,  —  ere  sleep,  come  travail,  life  ere  death  ! 

This  life  stream  on  my  soul,  direct,  oblique. 

But  always  streaming  !     Hindrances  ?     They  pique  : 

Helps  ?  such  .   .   .  but  w^hy  repeat,  my  soul  o'ertops 

Each  height,  then  every  depth  profoandlier  drops  ? 

Enough  that  I  can  live,  and  would  live  !     Wait 

For  some  transcendent  life  reserved  by  Fate 

To  follow  this  ?     Oh,  never !     Fate,  I  trust 

The  same,  my  soul  to ;  for,  as  who  flings  dust, 

Perchance  (so  facile  was  the  deed)  she  checked 

The  void  with  these  materials  to  affect 

My  soul  diversely  :  these  consigned  anew 

To  nought  by  death,  what  marvel  if  she  threw 

A  second  and  superber  spectacle 

Before  me  ?     What  may  serve  for  sun,  what  still 

Wander  a  moon  above  me  ?     What  else  wind 

About  me  like  the  pleasures  left  behind. 

And  how  shall  some  new  flesh  that  is  not  flesh 

Clino-  to  me  ?     What 's  new  lauohter  ?     Soothes  the  fresh 

Sleep  like  sleep  ?     Fate  's  exhaustless  for  my  sake 

In  brave  resource  :  but  whether  bids  she  slake 

My  thirst  at  this  first  rivulet,  or  count 

No  draught  w^orth  lij)  save  from  the  rocky  fount 

Above  i'  the  clouds,  while  here  she  's  provident 

Of  pure  loquacious  pearl,  the  soft  tree-tent 

Guards,  with  its  face  of  reate  and  sedge,  nor  fail 

The  silver  globules  and  gold-sparkling  grail 

At  bottom  ?     Oh,  't  were  too  absurd  to  slight 

For  the  hereafter  the  to-day's  delight ! 

Quench  thirst  at  this,  then  seek  next  well-spring  :  wear 

Home-lilies  ere  strange  lotus  in  my  hair  ! 

Here  is  the  Crowd,  whom  I  with  freest  heart 

Offer  to  serve,  contented  for  my  part 

To  give  life  up  in  service,  —  only  grant 

That  I  do  serve  ;  if  otherwise,  w\\y  want 

Auofht  further  of  me  ?     If  men  cannot  choose 

But  set  aside  life,  why  should  I  refuse 

The  gift?     I  take  it  —  I,  for  one,  engage 

Never  to  falter  through  my  pilgrimage  — 

Nor  end  it  howling  that  the  stock  or  stone 


316  SORDELLO 

Were  enviable,  truly  :  I,  for  one, 

Will  praise  the  world,  you  style  mere  anteroom 

To  the  palace  —  be  it  so  !   shall  I  assume 

—  My  foot  the  courtly  gait,  my  tongue  the  trope, 

My  mouth  the  smirk,  before  the  doors  fly  ope 

One  moment  ?     AYhat  ?  with  guarders  row  on  row 

Gay  swarms  of  varletry  that  come  and  go, 

Pages  to  dice  with,  waiting-girls  unlace 

The  plackets  of,  pert  claimants  help  displace, 

Heart-heavy  suitors  get  a  rank  for,  —  laugh 

At  yon  sleek  parasite,  break  his  own  staff 

'Cross  Beetle-brows  the  Usher's  shoulder,  —  why, 

Admitted  to  the  presence  by  and  by, 

Should  thought  of  having  lost  these  make  me  grieve 

Among  new  joys  I  reach,  for  joys  I  leave  ? 

Cool  citrine-crystals,  fierce  pyropus-stone. 

Are  floor-work  there  !     But  do  I  let  alone 

That  black-eyed  peasant  in  the  vestibule 

Once  and  forever  ?  —  Floor-work  ?     No  such  fool ! 

Rather,  were  heaven  to  forestall  earth,  I  'd  say 

I,  is  it,  must  be  blessed  ?     Then,  my  ow^n  way 

Bless  me  !     Give  firmer  arm  and  fleeter  foot, 

I  '11  thank  you  :  but  to  no  mad  wings  transmute 

These  limbs  of  mine  —  our  greensward  was  so  soft ! 

Nor  camp  I  on  the  thunder-cloud  aloft : 

We  feel  the  bliss  distinctlier,  having  thus 

Engines  subservient,  not  mixed  up  with  us. 

Better  move  palpably  through  heaven  :  nor,  freed 

Of  flesh,  forsooth,  from  space  to  space  proceed 

'Mid  flying  synods  of  worlds  !     No  :   in  heaven's  marge 

Show  Titan  still,  recumbent  o'er  his  targe 

Solid  with  stars  —  the  Centaur  at  his  game, 

Made  tremulously  out  in  hoary  flame  ! 

Life  I     Yet  the  very  cup  whose  extreme  dull 
Dregs,  even,  I  would  quaff,  was  dashed,  at  full, 
Aside  so  oft;  the  dea'h  I  fly,  revealed 
So  oft  a  better  life  this  life  concealed. 
And  which  sage,  champion,  martyr,  through  each  path 
Have  lumted  fearlessly  —  the  horrid  bath, 
The  crippling-irons  and  tlie  fiery  chair. 
'T  was  well  for  them  ;  let  me  become  aware 
As  they,  and  I  relinquish  life,  too  !     Let 
Wliat  masters  life  disclose  itself  !      Forget 
Vain  ordinances,  I  have  one  a])peal  — 
I  feel,  am  what  I  feel,  know  what  I  feel  ; 
So  much  is  truth  to  me.     What  Is,  then  ?     Since 


THERE   IS  A    LIFE  BEYOND  LIFE  817 

One  object,  viewed  diversely,  may  evince 

Beauty  and  ugliness  —  this  way  attract, 

That  way  repel,  —  why  gloze  upon  the  fact  ? 

AVhv  must  a  single  of  the  sides  be  right  ? 

What  bids  choose  this  and  leave  the  opposite  ? 

Where  's  abstract  Right  for  me?  — in  youth  endued 

With  Right  still  present,  still  to  be  pursued, 

Through  all  the  interchange  of  circles,  rife 

Each  with  its  jjroper  law  and  mode  of  life. 

Each  to  be  dwelt  at  ease  in  :   where,  to  sway 

Absolute  with  the  Kaiser,  or  obey 

Implicit  with  his  serf  of  fluttering  heart. 

Or,  like  a  sudden  thought  of  God's,  to  start 

Up,  Brutus  in  the  presence,  then  go  shout 

That  some  should  pick  the  unstrung  jewels  out  — 

Each,  well !  " 

And,  as  in  moments  when  the  past 
Gave  partially  enfranchisement,  he  cast 
Himself  quite  through  mere  secondary  states 
Of  his  soul's  essence,  little  loves  and  hates. 
Into  the  mid  deep  yearnings  overlaid 
By  these  ;  as  who  should  pierce  hill,  plain,  grove,  glade, 
And  on  into  the  very  nucleus  probe 
That  first  determined  there  exist  a  globe. 
As  that  were  easiest,  half  the  globe  dissolved'. 
So  seemed  Bordello's  closing-truth  evolved 
By  his  flesh-half's  break  up  ;  the  sudden  swell 
Of  his  expanding  soul  showed  111  and  Well, 
Sorrow  and  Joy,  Beauty  and  Ugliness, 
Virtue  and  Vice,  the  Larger  and  the  Less, 
All  qualities,  in  fine,  recorded  here, 
Might  be  but  modes  of  Time  and  this  one  sphere, 
Urgent  on  these,  but  not  of  force  to  bind 
Eternity,  as  Time  —  as  Matter  —  Mind, 
If  Mind,  Eternity,  should  choose  assert 
Their  attributes  within  a  Life  :  thus  girt 
With  circumstance,  next  change  beholds  them  cinct 
Quite  otherwise  —  with  Good  and  111  distinct, 
Joys,  sorrows,  tending  to  a  like  result  — 
Contrived  to  render  easy,  difficult, 
This  or  the  other  course  of  .  .  .  what  new  bond 
In  place  of  flesh  may  stop  their  flight  beyond 
Its  new  sphere,  as  that  course  does  harm  or  good 
To  its  arrangements.      Once  this  understood. 
As  suddenly  he  felt  himself  alone. 
Quite  out  of  Time  and  this  world  :  all  was  kHown. 


318  SORDELLO 

What  made  the  secret  of  his  past  despair  ? 

—  Most  imminent  when  he  seemed  most  aware 

Of  his  own  self-sufficiency  ;  made  mad 

By  craving  to  expand  the  power  he  had, 

And  not  new  power  to  be  expanded  ?  —  just 

This  made  it ;  Soul  on  Matter  being  thrust, 

Joy  comes  when  so  much  Soul  is  wreaked  in  Time 

On  Matter,  —  let  the  Soul's  attempt  sublime 

Matter  beyond  the  scheme  and  so  prevent 

By  more  or  less  that  deed's  accomplishment, 

And  Sorrow  follows :   Sorrow  how  avoid  ? 

Let  the  employer  match  the  thing  employed, 

Fit  to  the  finite  his  infinity. 

And  thus  proceed  forever,  in  degree 

Changed  but  in  kind  the  same,  still  limited 

To  the  appointed  circumstance  and  dead 

To  all  beyond.     A  sphere  is  but  a  sphere  ; 

Small,  Great,  are  merely  terms  we  bandy  here  ; 

Since  to  the  spirit's  absoluteness  all 

Are  like.     Now,  of  the  present  sphere  we  call 

Life,  are  conditions  ;  take  but  this  among 

Many  ;  the  body  was  to  be  so  long 

Youthful,  no  longer  :  but,  since  no  control 

Tied  to  that  body's  purposes  his  soul. 

She  chose  to  understand  the  body's  trade 

More  than  the  body's  self  —  had  fain  conveyed 

Her  boundless,  to  the  body's  bounded  lot. 

Hence,  the  soul  permanent,  the  body  not,  — 

Scarce  the  one  minute  for  enjoying  here,  — 

The  soul  must  needs  instruct  her  weak  compeer, 

Run  o'er  its  capabilities  and  wring 

A  joy  thence,  she  held  worth  experiencing  : 

Wliich,  far  from  half  discovered  even,  —  lo, 

The  minute  gone,  the  body's  power  let  go 

Appoiiioned  to  that  joy's  acquirement !     Broke 

Morning  o'er  earth,  he  yearned  for  all  it  woke  — 

From  the  volcano's  vapor-flag,  winds  hoist 

Black  o'er  the  spread  of  sea,  —  down  to  the  moist 

Dale's  silken  barley-spikes  sullied  with  rain. 

Swayed  eai'thwards,  heavily  to  rise  again  — 

The  Small,  a  sphere  as  perfect  as  the  Great 

To  the  soul's  absoluteness.     Meditate 

Too  lono;  on  such  a  morning's  cluster-chord 

And  the  whole  music  it  was  framed  afPord,  — 

The  chord's  might  half  discovered,  what  should  pluck 

One  string,  his  finger,  was  found  palsy-struck. 


EVEN  HERE,    IS  FAILURE   INEVITABLE?    319 

And  then  no  marvel  if  the  spirit,  shown 

A  saddest  sight  —  the  body  lost  alone 

Through  her  officious  prott'ered  help,  deprived 

Of  this  and  that  enjoyment  Fate  contrived,  — 

Virtue,  Good,  Beauty,  each  allowed  slip  hence,  — 

Vaingloriously  were  fain,  for  recompense, 

To  stem  the  ruin  even  yet,  protract 

The  body's  term,  supply  the  power  it  lacked 

From  her  infinity,  compel  it  learn 

These  qualities  were  only  Time's  concern, 

And  body  may,  with  sj)irit  helping,  barred  — 

Advance  the  same,  vanquished  —  obtain  reward, 

Reap  joy  where  sorrow  was  intended  grow. 

Of  Wrong  make  Right,  and  turn  111  Good  below. 

And  the  result  is,  the  poor  body  soon 

Sinks  under  what  was  meant  a  wondrous  boon, 

Leaving  its  bright  accomplice  all  aghast. 

So  much  was  plain  then,  proper  in  the  past ; 
To  be  complete  for,  satisfy  the  whole 
Series  of  spheres  —  Eternity,  his  soul 
Exceeded,  so  was  incomplete  for,  each 
Single  sphere  —  Time.     But  does  our  knowledge  reach 
No  farther  ?     Is  the  cloud  of  hindrance  broke 
But  by  the  failing  of  the  fleshly  yoke. 
Its  loves  and  hates,  as  now  when  death  lets  soar 
Sordello,  self-sufficient  as  before 
Tliough  during  the  mere  space  that  shall  elapse 
'Twixt  his  enthrallment  in  new  bonds,  perhaps? 
INIust  life  be  ever  just  escaped,  which  should 
Have  been  enjoyed  ?  —  nay,  might  have  been  and  would, 
Each  purpose  ordered  right  —  the  soul's  no  whit 
Beyond  the  body's  purpose  under  it  — 
Like  yonder  breadth  of  watery  heaven,  a  bay, 
And  that  sky-space  of  water,  ray  for  ray 
And  star  for  star,  one  richness  where  they  mixed 
As  this  and  that  wing  of  an  angel,  fixed, 
Tumultuary  splendors  folded  in 
To  die  —  would  soul,  proportioned  thus,  begin 
Exciting  discontent,  or  surelier  quell 
The  body  if,  aspiring,  it  rebel  ? 
But  how  so  order  life  ?     Still  brutalize 
The  soul,  the  sad  world's  way,  with  muffled  eyes 
To  all  that  was  before,  all  that  shall  be 
After  this  sphere  —  and  every  quality 
Save  some  sole  and  immutable  Great  and  Good 
And  Beauteous  whither  fate  has  loosed  its  hood 


820  SORDELLO 

To  follow  ?     Never  may  some  soul  see  All 
—  The  Great  Before  and  After,  and  the  Small 
Now,  yet  be  saved  by  this  the  simplest  lore, 
And  take  the  single  caurse  prescribed  before, 
As  the  king-bird  with  ages  on  his  plumes 
Travels  to  die  in  his  ancestral  glooms  ? 
Belt  where  descry  the  Love  that  shall  select 
That  course  ?     Here  is  a  soul  whom,  to  affect. 
Nature  has  plied  with  all  her  means,  from  trees 
And  flowers  e'en  to  the  Multitude  I  —  and  these, 
Decides  he  save  or  no  ?     One  word  to  end ! 

Ah  my  Sordello,  I  this  once  befriend 
And  speak  for  you.     Of  a  Power  above  you  still 
Which,  utterly  incomprehensible. 
Is  out  of  rivalry,  which  thus  you  can 
Love,  though  unloving  all  conceived  by  man  — 
What  need  I     And  of  —  none  the  minutest  duct 
To  that  out-nature,  nought  that  would  instruct 
And  so  let  rivalry  begin  to  live  — 
But  of  a  power  its  representative 
Who,  being  for  authority  the  same. 
Communication  different,  should  claim 
A  course,  the  first  chose  and  this  last  revealed  — 
This  Human  clear,  as  that  Divine  concealed  — 
What  utter  need  I 

What  has  Sordello  found  ? 
Or  can  his  spirit  go  the  mighty  round, 
End  where  poor  Eglamor  begun  ?  —  So,  says 
Old  fable,  the  two  eagles  went  two  ways 
About  the  world  :  where,  in  the  midst,  they  met. 
Though  on  a  shifting  waste  of  sand,  men  set 
Jove's  temple.     Quick,  what  has  Sordello  found  ? 
For  they  approach  —  approach  —  that  foot's  rebound 
Palma  ?     No,  Salinguerra  though  in  mail ; 
They  mount,  have  reached  the  threshold,  dash  the  veil 
Aside  —  and  you  divine  who  sat  there  dead. 
Under  liis  foot  the  badge  :  still,  Palma  said, 
A  triumph  lingering  in  the  wide  eyes. 
Wider  than  some  spent  swimmer's  if  he  sj^ies 
Help  from  above  in  his  extreme  despair. 
And,  head  far  back  on  shoulder  thrust,  turns  there 
With  short  quick  passionate  cry  :   as  Palma  pressed 
In  one  great  kiss,  her  lips  upon  his  breast. 
It  beat. 

By  tiiis,  the  hermit-bee  has  stoj^ped 
His  (hiys  toil  at  Goito :  the  new-cropped 


KNOWLEDGE    TOO  LATE  321 

Dead  vine-leaf  answers,  now  'tis  eve,  he  bit, 
Twirled  so,  and  filed  all  day  :  the  mansion  's  fit, 
God  counselled  for.     As  easy  guess  the  word 
That  passed  betwixt  them,  and  become  the  third 
To  the  soft  small  unfrighted  bee,  as  tax 
Him  with  one  fault  —  so,  no  remembrance  racks 
Of  the  stone  maidens  and  the  font  of  stone 
He,  creeping  through  the  crevice,  leaves  alone. 
Alas,  my  friend,  alas  Sordello,  whom 
Anon  they  laid  within  that  old  font-tomb, 
And,  yet  again,  alas  ! 

And  now  is  't  worth 
Our  while  bring  back  to  mind,  much  less  set  forth 
How  Salinguerra  extricates  himself 
"Without  Sordello  ?     Ghibellin  and  Guelf 
May  fight  their  fiercest  out  ?     If  Richard  sulked 
In  durance  or  the  Marquis  paid  his  mulct, 
Who  cares,  Sordello  gone  ?     The  upshot,  sure. 
Was  peace ;  our  chief  made  some  frank  overture 
That  prospered  ;  compliment  fell  thick  and  fast 
On  its  disposer,  and  Taurello  passed 
With  foe  and  friend  for  an  outstripping  soul. 
Nine  days  at  least.     Then,  —  fairly  reached  the  goal,  — 
He,  by  one  effort,  blotted  the  great  hoj^e 
Out  of  his  mind,  nor  further  tried  to  cope 
With  Este,  that  mad  evening's  style,  but  sent 
Away  the  Legate,  and  the  League,  content 
No  blame  at  least  the  brothers  had  incurred, 
—  Dispatched  a  message  to  the  Monk,  he  heard 
Patiently  first  to  last,  scarce  shivered  at. 
Then  curled  his  limbs  up  on  his  wolfskin  mat 
And  ne'er  spoke  more,  —  informed  the  Ferrarese 
He  but  retained  their  rule  so  long  as  these 
Lingered  in  pupilage,  — and  last,  no  mode 
Apparent  else  of  keeping  safe  the  road 
From  Germany  direct  to  Lombardy 
For  Friedrich,  —  none,  that  is,  to  guarantee 
The  faith  and  promptitude  of  who  should  next 
Obtain  Sofia's  dowry,  —  sore  peri)lexed  — 
(Sofia  being  youngest  of  the  tribe 
Of  daughters,  Ecelin  was  wont  to  bribe 
The  envious  magnates  with  —  nor,  since  he  sent 
Henry  of  Egna  this  fair  child,  had  Trent 
Once  failed  the  Kaiser's  purposes  —  '"we  lost 
Egna  last  year,  and  who  takes  Egna's  post  -^ — 
Opens  the  Lombard  gate  if  Friedrich  knock?  ") 


322  SORDELLO 

Himself  espoused  the  Lady  of  the  Rock 

In  pure  necessity,  and,  so  destroyed 

His  slender  last  of  chances,  quite  made  void 

Old  prophecy,  and  sjDite  of  all  the  schemes 

Overt  and  covert,  youth's  deeds,  age's  dreams, 

Was  sucked  into  Romano.      And  so  hushed 

He  up  this  evening's  work,  that,  vdien  't  was  brushed 

Somehow  against  by  a  blind  chronicle 

Which,  chronicling  whatever  woe  befell 

Ferrara,  noted  this  the  obscure  woe 

Of  "  Salinguerra's  sole  son  Giacomo 

Deceased,  fatuous  and  doting,  ere  his  sire," 

The  townsfolk  rubbed  their  eyes,  could  but  admire 

Which  of  Sofia's  five  was  meant. 

The  chaps 
Of  earth's  dead  hope  were  tardy  to  collapse, 
Obliterated  not  the  beautiful 
Distinctive  features  at  a  crash  :   but  dull 
And  duller  these,  next  year,  as  Guelfs  withdrew 
Each  to  his  stronghold.     Then  (securely  too 
Ecelin  at  Campese  slept ;  close  by, 
Who  likes  may  see  him  in  Solagna  lie, 
With  cushioned  head  and  gloved  hand  to  denote 
The  cavalier  he  was)  —  then  his  heart  smote 
Young  Ecelin  at  last ;  long  since  adult. 
And,  save  Vicenza's  business,  what  result 
In  blood  and  blaze  ?      (So  hard  to  intercept 
Sordello  till  his  plain  withdrawal !)      Stepped 
Then  its  new  lord  on  Lombardy.     I'  the  nick 
Of  time  Avhen  Ecelin  and  Alberic 
Closed  with  Taurello,  come  precisely  news 
That  in  Verona  half  the  souls  refuse 
Allegiance  to  the  Marquis  and  the  Count  — 
Have  cast  them  from  a  throne  they  bid  him  mount, 
Their  Podesta,  through  his  ancestral  worth. 
Ecelin  flew  there,  and  the  town  henceforth 
Was  wholly  his  —  Taurello  sinking  back 
From  temporary  station  to  a  track 
That  suited.     News  received  of  this  acquist, 
Friedrich  did  come  to  Lombardy  :  who  missed 
Taurello  then  ?     Another  year  :  they  took 
Vicenza,  left  the  Marquis  scarce  a  nook 
For  refuge,  and,  when  hundreds  two  or  three 
Of  Guelfs  conspired  to  call  themselves  "  The  Free," 
Opposing  Alberic,  —  vile  Bassanese,  — 
(Without  Sordello  1)  —  Ecelin  at  ease 


SALINGUERRA'S  PART  LAPSES    TO  ECELIN     323 

Slaujlitered  them  so  observaLly,  that  oft 

A  little  Salinouerra  looked  with  soft 

Blue  eyes  up,  asked  his  sire  the  proper  age 

To  get  appointed  his  proud  uncle's  page. 

!More  years  passed,  and  that  sire  had  dwindled  down 

To  a  mere  showy  turbulent  soldier,  grown 

Better  through  age,  his  parts  still  in  repute, 

Subtle  —  how  else  ?  —  but  hardly  so  astute 

As  his  contemporaneous  friends  professed  ; 

Undoubtedly  a  brawler :  for  the  rest, 

Ivnovvn  by  each  neighbor,  and  allowed  for,  let 

Keep  his  incorrigible  ways,  nor  fret 

Men  who  had  missed  their  boyhood's  bugbear  :   "  trap 

The  ostrich,  suffer  our  bald  osprey  flap 

A  battered  pinion  I  "  —  was  the  word.      In  fine, 

One  flaj)  too  much  and  Venice's  marine 

Was  meddled  with ;  no  overlooking  that ! 

She  captured  him  in  his  Ferrara,  fat 

And  florid  at  a  banquet,  more  by  fraud 

Tban  force,  to  speak  the  truth  ;  there  's  slender  laud 

Ascribed  you  for  assisting  eighty  years 

To  pull  his  death  on  such  a  man  ;  fate  shears 

The  life-cord  prompt  enough  whose  last  fine  threads 

You  fritter  :  so,  presiding  his  board-head. 

The  old  smile,  your  assurance  all  went  well 

With  Friedrich  (as  if  he  were  like  to  tell !) 

In  rushed  (a  plan  contrived  before)  our  friends. 

Made  some  pretence  at  fighting,  some  amends 

For  the  shame  done  his  eighty  years  —  (apart 

The  princij)le,  none  found  it  in  his  heart 

To  be  much  angry  with  Taurello)  —  gained 

Their  galleys  with  the  prize,  and  what  remained 

But  carry  him  to  Venice  for  a  show  ? 

—  Set  him,  as  't  were,  down  gently  —  free  to  go 

His  gait,  inspect  our  square,  pretend  observe 

The  swallows  soaring  their  eternal  curve 

'Twixt  Theodore  and  Mark,  if  citizens 

Gathered  importunately,  fives  and  tens, 

To  point  their  children  the  Magnifico, 

All  but  a  monarch  once  in  firm-land,  go 

His  gait  among  them  now  —  "  it  took,  indeed, 

Fully  this  Ecelin  to  supersede 

That  man,"  remarked  the  seniors.     Singular ! 

Sordello's  inability  to  bar 

Rivals  the  stage,  that  evening,  mainly  brought 

About  by  his  strange  disbelief  that  aught 


324  SORDELLO 

Was  ever  to  be  done,  —  this  thrust  the  Twain 
Undei'  Tuurello"s  tutelage,  —  whom,  brain 
And  heart  and  hand,  he  forthwith  in  one  rod 
Indissohibly  bound  to  baffle  God 
Who  loves  the  world  —  and  thus  allowed  the  thin 
Gray  wizened  dwarfish  devil  Ecelin, 
And  massy-muscled  big-boned  Alberic 
(Mere  man,  alas  I)  to  put  his  problem  quick 
To  demonstration  —  prove  wherever  's  will 
To  do,  there  's  j^lenty  to  be  done,  or  ill 
Or  good.     Anointed,  then,  to  rend  and  rip  — 
Kings  of  the  gag  and  flesh-hook,  screw  and  whip, 
They  plagued  the  world  :  a  touch  of  Hildebrand 
(So  far  from  obsolete  I)  made  Lombards  band 
Together,  cross  their  coats  as  for  Christ's  cause, 
And  saving  Milan  win  the  world's  applause. 
Ecelin  jjerished  :  and  I  think  grass  grew 
Never  so  pleasant  as  in  Valley  Rii 
By  San  Zenon  where  Alberic  in  turn 
Saw  his  exasperated  captors  burn 
Seven  children  and  their  mother  ;  then,  regaled 
So  far,  tied  on  to  a  wild  horse,  was  trailed 
To  death  through  raunce  and  bramble-bush.     I  take 
Gods  part  and  testify  that  'mid  the  brake 
Wild  o'er  his  castle  on  the  pleasant  knoll, 
You  hear  its  one  tower  left,  a  belfry,  toll  — 
The  earthquake  si:)ared  it  last  year,  laying  flat 
The  modern  church  beneath,  —  no  harm  in  that ! 
Chirrups  the  contumacious  grassho])]^er. 
Rustles  the  lizard  and  the  cushats  chirre 
Above  the  ravage  :  there,  at  deep  of  day 
A  week  since,  heard  I  the  old  Canon  say 
He  saw  with  his  own  eyes  a  barrow  burst 
And  Alberic's  huge  skeleton  unhearsed 
Only  live  years  ago.     He  added,  "  June  's 
The  month  for  carding  off  our  first  cocoons 
The  silkworms  fabricate  "  —  a  double  news, 
Nor  he  nor  I  could  tell  the  worthier.     Choose  ! 
And  Naddo  gone,  all 's  gone  ;  not  Eglamor ! 
Believe,  I  knew  the  face  I  waited  for, 
A  guest  my  spirit  of  the  golden  courts  ! 
Oh  strange  to  see  how,  despite  ill-reports. 
Disuse,  some  wear  of  years,  that  face  retained 
Its  joyous  look  of  love !      Suns  waxed  and  waned, 
And  still  my  spirit  held  an  upward  flight, 
Spiral  on  spiral,  gyres  of  life  and  light 


GOOD    WILL— ILL   LUCK,    GET  SECOND   PRIZE     325 

More  and  more  i>orgeous — ever  that  face  there 
The  hijit  ailiiiittecl !   crosi^ed,  too,  with  some  care 
As  perfect  triumph  were  not  sure  for  all, 
But,  on  a  few,  enduring  damp  must  fall, 

—  A  transient  struggle,  haply  a  painful  sense 
Of  the  inferior  nature's  clinging  —  whence 
Slight  starting  tears  easily  wdi)ed  away. 
Fine  jealousies  soon  stifled  in  tlie  play 

Of  irrepressible  admiration  —  not 
Aspiring,  all  considered,  to  their  lot 
Who  ever,  just  as  they  prepare  ascend 
Spiral  on  spiral,  w^ish  thee  well,  impend 
Thy  frank  delight  at  their  exclusive  track, 
That  upturned  fervid  face  and  hair  put  back  ! 

Is  there  no  more  to  say  ?     He  of  the  rhymes  — 
Many  a  tale,  of  this  retreat  betimes, 
Was  born  :   Sordello  die  at  once  for  men  ? 
The  Chroniclers  of  Mantua  tired  their  pen 
Telling  how  Sordello  Prince  Viscontl  saved 
Mantua,  and  elsewhere  notably  behaved  — 
Who  thus,  by  fortune  ordering  events, 
Passed  with  posterity,  to  all  intents. 
For  just  the  god  he  never  could  become. 
As  Knight,  Bard,  Gallant,  men  were  never  dumb 
In  praise  of  him  :  while  what  he  should  have  been, 
Coidd  be,  and  was  not  —  the  one  step  too  mean 
For  him  to  take,  —  we  suffer  at  this  day 
Because  of :  Ecelin  had  pushed  away 
Its  chance  ere  Dante  could  arrive  and  take 
That  step  Sordello  spurned,  for  the  world's  sake  : 
He  did  much  —  but  Sordello's  chance  was  gone. 
Thus,  had  Sordello  dared  that  step  alone, 
Apollo  had  been  compassed  —  't  was  a  fit 
He  wished  should  go  to  him,  not  he  to  it 

—  As  one  content  to  merely  be  supposed 
Singing  or  fighting  elsewhere,  w^hile  he  dozed 
Really  at  home  —  one  who  was  chiefly  glad 
To  have  achieved  the  few  real  deeds  he  had. 
Because  that  way  assured  they  were  not  worth 
Doing,  so  spared  from  doing  them  henceforth  — 
A  tree  tliat  covets  fruitage  and  yet  tastes 
Never  itself,  itself.     Had  he  embraced 

Their  cause  then,  men  had  plucked  Hesperian  fruit 
And,  praising  that,  just  thrown  him  in  to  boot 
All  he  was  anxious  to  appear,  but  scarce 
Solicitous  to  be.     A  sorry  farce 


326  SORDELLO 

Such  life  is,  after  all !     Cannot  I  say 

He  lived  for  some  one  better  thing  ?  this  way.  — 

Lo,  on  a  heathy  brown  and  nameless  hill 

By  sparkling-  Asolo,  in  mist  and  chill, 

Morning  just  up,  higher  and  higher  runs 

A  child  barefoot  and  rosy.     See  !  the  sun  's 

On  the  square  castle's  inner-court's  low  wall 

Like  the  chine  of  some  extinct  animal 

Half  turned  to  earth  and  flowers ;  and  through  the  haze 

(Save  where  some  slender  patches  of  gray  maize 

Are  to  be  overleaped)  that  boy  has  crossed 

The  whole  hill-side  of  dew  and  powder-frost 

Matting  the  balm  and  mountain  camomile. 

Up  and  up  goes  he,  singing  all  the  while 

Some  unintellisfible  words  to  beat 

The  lark,  God's  poet,  swooning  at  his  feet, 

So  worsted  is  he  at  "  the  few  fine  locks 

Stained  like  pale  honey  oozed  from  topmost  rocks 

Sunlilanched  the  livelong  summer,"  —  all  that's  left 

Of  the  Goito  lay  !     And  thus  bereft. 

Sleep  and  forget,  Sordello  !     In  effect 

He  sleeps,  the  feverish  poet  —  I  suspect 

Not  utterly  companionless  ;  but,  friends, 

Wake  up  !     The  ghost 's  gone,  and  the  story  ends 

I  'd  fain  hope,  sweetly  ;  seeing,  peri  or  ghoul, 

That  spirits  are  conjectured  fair  or  foul. 

Evil  or  good,  judicious  authors  think. 

According  as  they  vanish  in  a  stink 

Or  in  a  perfume.     Friends,  be  frank  !  ye  snuff 

Civet,  I  warrant.     Really  ?     Like  enough  ! 

Merely  the  savor's  rareness  ;  any  nose 

May  ravage  with  impunity  a  rose  : 

Rifle  a  musk-])od  and  't  will  ache  like  yours  ! 

I  'd  tell  you  that  same  pungency  ensures 

An  after-gust,  but  that  were  overbold. 

Who  would  has  heard  Sordello's  story  told. 


PIPPA  PASSES 

A  DRAMA 


I  DEDICATE  ]MY  BEST  INTENTIONS,  IN  THIS  POEM, 

ADMIRINGLY  TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  ION," 

AFFECTIONATELY  TO  MR.  SERGEANT  TALFOURD. 

R.    B. 

London,  1S41. 


NEW  YEAR'S  DAY  at  Asolo  in  the  Trevisax.  A  large  mean 
airy  chamber.  A  girl,  Pippa,  from  the  silk-mills,  springing  out 
of  bed. 

Day  ! 

Faster  and  more  fast, 

O'er  night's  brim,  day  boils  at  last ; 

Boils,  pure  gold,  o'er  the  cloud-cup's  brim 

Where  spurting  and  suj:)pressed  it  lay  ; 

For  not  a  froth-flake  touched  the  rim 

Of  yonder  gap  in  the  solid  gray 

Of  the  eastern  cloud,  an  hour  away  ; 

But  forth  one  wavelet,  then  another,  curled, 

Till  the  whole  sunrise,  not  to  be  suppressed, 

Rose,  reddened,  and  its  seething  breast 

Flickered  in  bounds,  grew  gold,  then  overflowed  the  world. 

Oh,  Day,  if  I  squander  a  wavelet  of  thee, 

A  mite  of  my  twelve-hours'  treasure, 

The  least  of  thy  gazes  or  glances, 

(Be  they  grants  thou  art  bound  to  or  gifts  above  measure) 

One  of  thy  choices  or  one  of  thy  chances, 

(Be  they  tasks  God  imposed  thee  or  freaks  at  thy  pleasure) 

—  My  Day,  if  I  squander  such  labor  or  leisure, 

Then  shame  fall  on  Asolo,  mischief  on  me ! 

Thy  long  blue  solemn  hours  serenely  flowing, 
Whence  earth,  we  feel,  gets  steady  help  and  good  — 
Thy  fitful  sunshine-minutes,  coming,  going, 
As  if  earth  turned  from  work  in  gamesome  mood  — 
All  shall  be  mine !     But  thou  must  treat  me  not 
As  the  prosperous  are  treated,  those  who  live 


328  PIPPA    PASSES 

At  hand  here,  and  enjoy  the  higher  lot, 
In  readiness  to  take  what  thou  wilt  give, 
And  free  to  let  alone  what  thou  refusest ; 
For,  Day,  my  holiday,  if  thou  ill-usest 
Me,  who  am  only  Pij^pa,  —  old-year's  sorrow, 
Cast  off  last  night,  w^ill  come  again  to-morrow : 
Whereas,  if  thou  prove  gentle,  I  shall  borrow 
Sufficient  strength  of  thee  for  new-year's  sorrow. 
All  other  men  and  women  that  this  earth 
Belongs  to,  who  all  days  alike  possess. 
Make  general  plenty  cure  particular  dearth. 
Get  more  joy  one  way,  if  another,  less : 
Thou  art  my  single  day,  God  lends  to  leaven 
What  were  all  earth  else,  with  a  feel  of  heaven,  — 
Sole  light  that  helps  me  through  the  year,  thy  sun's  ! 
Try  now  !     Take  Asolo's  Four  Happiest  Ones  — 
And  let  thy  morning  rain  on  that  superb 
Great  haughty  Ottima  ;  can  rain  disturb 
Her  Sebald's  homage  ?     All  the  while  thy  rain 
Beats  fiercest  on  her  shrub-house  window-pane. 
He  will  but  press  the  closer,  breathe  more  warm 
Against  her  cheek ;  how  should  she  mind  the  storm  ? 
And,  morning  past,  if  mid-day  shed  a  gloom 
O'er  Jules  and  Phene,  —  what  care  bride  and  groom 
Save  for  their  dear  selves  ?     "T  is  their  marriage-day  ; 
And  while  they  leave  church  and  go  home  their  way, 
Hand  clasping  hand,  within  each  breast  would  be 
Sunbeams  and  pleasant  weather  sjiite  of  thee. 
Then,  for  another  trial,  obscure  thy  eve 
With  mist,  —  will  Luigi  and  his  mother  grieve  — 
The  lady  and  her  child,  unmatched,  forsooth. 
She  in  her  age,  as  Luigi  in  his  youth, 
For  true  content  ?     The  cheerful  town,  warm  close 
And  safe,  the  sooner  that  thou  art  morose, 
Receives  tliem.     And  yet  once  again,  outbreak 
In  storm  at  night  on  Monsignor,  they  make 
Such  stir  about,  —  whom  they  exjDect  from  Rome 
To  visit  Asolo,  his  brothers'  home. 
And  say  here  masses  proper  to  release 
A  soul  from  pain,  —  what  storm  dares  hurt  his  peace  ? 
Calm  would  he  pray,  with  his  own  thoughts  to  ward 
Thy  thunder  off,  nor  want  the  angels"  guard. 
But  Pippa  —  just  one  such  mischance  would  spoil 
Her  day  tliat  lightens  the  next  twelvemonth's  toil 
At  wearisome  silk-winding,  coil  on  coil  I 
And  here  1  let  time  slip  for  nought ! 


i 


PIPPA    PASSES  329 

Aha,  you  foolhardy  sunbeam,  caught 

AVith  a  single  splash  from  my  ewer  ! 

You  that  would  mock  the  best  pursuer, 

Was  my  basin  over-deep  ? 

One  splash  of  water  ruins  you  asleep, 

And  up,  up,  fleet  your  brilliant  bits 

Wheeling  and  counterwheeling. 

Reeling,  broken  beyond  healing  : 

Now  grow  together  on  the  ceiling ! 

That  will  task  your  wits. 

"Whoever  it  was  quenched  fire  first,  hoped  to  see 

Morsel  after  morsel  flee 

As  merrily,  as  giddily  .  .  . 

Meantime,  what  lights  my  sunbeam  on, 

AVhere  settles  by  degrees  the  radiant  cripple  ? 

Oh,  is  it  surely  blown,  my  martagon  ? 

New-blown  and  ruddy  as  St.  Agnes'  nipple. 

Plump  as  the  flesh-bunch  on  some  Turk  bird's  poll ! 

Be  sure  if  corals,  branching  'neath  the  ripple 

Of  ocean,  bud  there,  —  fairies  watch  unroll 

Such  turban-flowers ;  I  say,  such  lamps  disperse 

Thick  red  flame  through  that  dusk  green  universe ! 

I  am  queen  of  thee,  floweret! 

And  each  fleshy  blossom 

Preserve  I  not  —  (safer 

Than  leaves  that  embower  it, 

Or  shells  that  embosom) 

—  From  weevil  and  chafer  ? 

Laugh  through  my  pane  then  ;  solicit  the  bee  ; 
Gibe  him,  be  sure  ;  and,  in  midst  of  thy  glee. 
Love  thy  queen,  worship  me  ! 

—  Worship  whom  else  ?     For  am  I  not,  this  day, 
Whate'er  I  please  ?     What  shall  I  please  to-day  ? 

]My  morn,  noon,  eve  and  night  —  how  spend  my  day  ? 

To-morrow  I  must  be  Pippa  who  winds  silk,  ^ 

The  whole  year  round,  to  earn  just  bread  and  milk  : 

But,  this  one  day,  I  have  leave  to  go. 

And  play  out  my  fancy's  fullest  games  ; 

I  may  fancy  all  day  —  and  it  shall  be  so  — 

That  I  taste  of  the  pleasures,  am  called  by  the  names 

Of  the  Happiest  Four  in  our  Asolo  I 

See  I      Up  the  hillside  yonder,  through  the  morning. 
Some  one  shall  love  me,  as  the  world  calls  love : 
I  am  no  less  than  Ottima,  take  warning! 


330  PIPPA    PASSES 

The  gardens,  and  the  great  stone  house  above, 
And  other  house  for  shrubs,  all  glass  in  front. 
Are  mine  ;  where  Sebald  steals,  as  he  is  wont, 
To  court  me,  Avhile  old  Luca  yet  reposes  : 
And  therefore,  till  the  shrub-house  door  uncloses, 
I  .  .  .  what  now  ?  —  give  abundant  cause  for  prate 
About  me  —  Ottima,  I  mean  —  of  late, 
Too  bold,  too  confident  she  '11  still  face  down 
The  spitefullest  of  talkers  in  our  town. 
How  we  talk  in  the  little  town  below ! 

But  love,  love,  love  —  there  's  better  love,  I  know! 
This  foolish  love  was  only  day's  first  offer  ; 
I  choose  my  next  love  to  defy  the  scoffer : 
For  do  not  our  Bride  and  Bridegroom  sally 
Out  of  Possagno  church  at  noon  ? 
Their  house  looks  over  Orcana  valley  : 
Why  should  not -I  be  the  bride  as  soon 
As  Ottima  ?     For  I  saw,  beside, 
Arrive  last  night  that  little  bride  — 
Saw,  if  you  call  it  seeing  her,  one  flash 
Of  the  j3ale  snow-pure  cheek  and  black  bright  tresses, 
Blacker  than  all  except  the  black  eyelash  ; 
I  wonder  she  contrives  those  lids  no  dresses! 

—  So  strict  was  she,  the  veil 
Should  cover  close  her  pale 

Pure  cheeks  —  a  bride  to  look  at  and  scarce  touch, 

Scarce  touch,  remember,  Jules  !     For  are  not  such 

Used  to  be  tended,  flower-like,  every-feature. 

As  if  one's  breath  would  fray  the  lily  of  a  creature  ? 

A  soft  and  easy  life  these  ladies  lead  : 

Whiteness  in  us  were  wonderful  indeed. 

Oh,  save  that  brow  its  virgin  dimness, 

Keep  that  foot  its  lady  primness. 

Let  those  ankles  never  swerve 

From  their  exquisite  reserve, 

Yet  have  to  trip  along  the  streets  like  me. 

All  but  naked  to  the  knee  ! 

How  will  she  ever  grant  her  Jules  a  bliss 

So  startling  as  her  real  first  infant  kiss  ? 

Oh,  no  —  not  envy,  this  ! 

—  Not  envy,  sure  !  —  for  if  you  gave  me 
Leave  to  take  or  to  refuse. 

In  earnest,  do  you  think  I  'd  choose 

That  sort  of  new  love  to  enslave  me  ? 

Mine  should  have  lapped  me  round  from  the  beginning ; 


PIP PA   PASSES  331 

As  little  fear  of  losing  it  as  winning  : 

Lovers  grow  cold,  men  learn  to  hate  their  wives, 

And  only  parents'  love  can  last  our  lives. 

At  eve  the  Son  and  Mother,  gentle  pair, 

Commune  inside  our  turret :  what  prevents 

My  being  Luigi  ?     While  that  mossy  lair 

Of  lizards  tlirough  the  winter-time  is  stirred 

With  each  to  each  imparting  sweet  intents 

For  this  new-year,  as  brooding  bird  to  bird  — 

(For  I  observe  of  late,  the  evening  walk 

Of  Luigi  and  his  mother,  always  ends 

Inside  our  ruined  turret,  where  they  talk. 

Calmer  than  lovers,  yet  more  kind  than  friends) 

—  Let  me  be  cared  about,  kept  out  of  harm. 

And  schemed  for,  safe  in  love  as  with  a  charm  ; 

Let  me  be  Luigi !     If  I  only  knew 

What  was  my  mother's  face  —  my  father,  too  ! 

Nay,  if  you  come  to  that,  best  love  of  all 
Is  God's  ;  then  why  not  have  God's  love  befall 
Myself  as,  in  the  palace  by  the  Dome, 
Monsignor  ?  —  who  to-night  will  bless  the  home 
Of  his  dead  brother  ;  and  God  bless  in  turn 
That  heart  which  beats,  those  eyes  which  mildly  burn 
With  love  for  all  men  !     I,  to-night  at  least, 
Would  be  that  holy  and  beloved  priest. 

Now  wait !  —  even  I  already  seem  to  share 

In  God's  love  :  what  does  New-year's  hymn  declare  ? 

What  other  meaning  do  these  verses  bear  ? 

All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God  : 

If  7101V,  as  formerli/  he  trod 

Paradise,  his  presence  fills 

Our  earth,  each  only  as  God  ivills 

Can  ivork  —  God^s  puppets,  best  and  ivorsty 

Are  ive  ;  there  is  no  last  nor  first. 

Say  not  "  a  small  event !  "      Why  "  small  "  ? 
Costs  it  more  jjain  than  this,  ye  call 
A  "  great  event,'^  should  come  to  pass, 
Than  that  ?     Untivine  me  from  the  mass 
Of  deeds  which  make  up  life,  one  deed 
Power  shall  fall  short  in  or  exceed  ! 

And  more  of  it,  and  more  of  it !  —  oh  yes  — 
I  will  pass  each,  and  see  their  hajjpiness, 


332  PIPPA    PASSES 

And  envy  none  —  being  just  as  great,  no  doubt, 

Useful  to  men,  and  dear  to  God,  as  they  ! 

A  pretty  thing  to  care  about 

So  mightily,  this  single  holiday  ! 

But  let  the  sun  shine  !     Wherefore  repine  ? 

—  With  thee  to  lead  me,  O  Day  of  mine, 

Down  the  grass  path  gray  with  dew, 

Under  the  pine-wood,  blind  with  boughs, 

Where  the  swallow  never  flew 

Nor  yet  cicala  dared  carouse  — 

No,  dared  carouse  I  IShe  enters  the  street. 


I.  MORNING.     Up  the  Hillside,  inside  the   Shruh-house.      Luca's 
Wife,  Ottima,  and  her  Paramour,  the  German  Sebald. 

Seh.  [sings.~\     Let  the  watching  lids  wink! 

Day's  ablaze  ivith  eyes,  think  ! 
Deep  into  the  night,  drink  ! 

Otti.  Night  ?    Such  may  be  your  Rhine-land  nights,  perhaps ; 
But  this  blood-red  beam  through  the  shutter's  chink 
—  We  call  such  light,  the  morning  :  let  us  see ! 
Mind  how  you  grope  your  way,  though !     How  these  tall 
Naked  geraniums  straggle !     Push  the  lattice 
Behind  that  frame  !  —  Nay,  do  I  bid  you  ?  —  Sebald, 
It  shakes  the  dust  down  on  me  !     Why,  of  course 
The  slide-bolt  catches.     Well,  are  you  content. 
Or  must  I  find  you  something  else  to  spoil  ? 
Kiss  and  be  friends,  my  Sebald  !     Is  't  full  morning  ?  . 
Oh,  don't  speak  then  ! 

Seb.  Ay,  thus  it  used  to  be  ! 

Ever  your  house  was,  I  remember,  shut 
Till  mid-day  ;  I  observed  that,  as  I  strolled 
On  mornings  through  the  vale  here  ;  country  girls 
Were  noisy,  washing  garments  in  the  brook. 
Hinds  drove  the  slow  white  oxen  up  the  hills : 
But  no,  your  house  was  mute,  would  ope  no  eye  ! 
And  wisely  :  you  were  plotting  one  thing  there, 
Nature,  another  outside.     I  looked  up  — 
Rough  Avliite  wood  slnitters.  rusty  iron  bars, 
Silent  as  death,  bHnd  in  a  flood  of  light. 
Oh,  I  remember  !  —  and  the  peasants  laughed 
And  said,  "•  The  old  man  sleeps  with  the  young  wife." 
This  house  was  his,  this  chair,  this  window  —  his ! 

Otti.  Ah,  the  clear  morning  !     I  can  see  St.  Mark's  ; 
That  black  streak  is  the  belfry.     Stop  :  Vicenza 


PIPPA   PASSES  33 


o 


Should  lie  .  .  .  there  's  Padua,  plain  enough,  that  blue ! 
Look  o'er  my  shoulder,  follow  luy  finger ! 

Seb.  Morning  ? 

It  seems  to  me  a  night  with  a,  sun  added. 

Where  's  dew,  where  's  freshness  ?  That  bruised  plant,  I  bruised 
In  getting  through  the  lattice  yestereve, 
Uroops  as  it  did.     See,  here  's  my  elbow's  mark 
I'  the  dust  o'  the  sill. 

Otti.  Oh,  shut  the  lattice,  pray! 

Seb.  Let  me  lean  out !     I  cannot  scent  blood  here, 
Foul  as  the  morn  may  be. 

Tliere,  shut  the  world  out ! 
How  do  you  feel  now,  Ottima  ?     There,  curse 
The  world  and  all  outside  !     Let  us  throw  off 
This  mask  :  how  do  you  bear  yourself  ?     Let 's  out 
With  all  of  it  I 

Otti  Best  never  speak  of  it. 

Seb.  Best  speak  again  and  yet  again  of  it, 
Till  words  cease  to  be  more  than  words.     "  His  blood," 
For  instance  —  let  those  two  words  mean,  "  His  blood  '* 
And  nothing  more.     Notice,  I  '11  say  them  now, 
"  His  blood." 

Otti,  Assuredly  if  I  repented 

The  deed  — 

Seb.  Repent?     Who  should  repent,  or  why  ? 

What  puts  that  in  your  head  ?     Did  I  on<;e  say 
That  I  repented  ? 

Otti  No ;  I  said  the  deed  .  .  . 

Seb.  "  The  deed  "  and  "  the  event  "  —  just  now  it  was 
"  Our  passion's  fruit  "  — the  devil  take  such  cant ! 
Say,  once  and  always,  Luca  was  a  wittol, 
I  am  his  cut-throat,  you  are  .  .  . 

Otti.  Here  's  the  wine  ; 

I  brought  it  when  we  left  the  house  above, 
And  glasses  too  —  wine  of  both  sorts.     Black  ?     White  then? 

Seb.     But  am  not  I  his  cut-throat  ?     What  are  you  ? 

Otti.  There  trudges  on  his  business  from  the  Duomo 
Benet  the  Capuchin,  with  his  brown  hood 
And  bare  feet ;  always  in  one  place  at  church, 
Close  under  the  stone  wall  by  the  south  entry. 
I  used  to  take  him  for  a  brown  cold  piece 
Of  the  wall's  self,  as  out  of  it  he  rose 
To  let  me  pass  —  at  first,  I  say,  I  used  : 
Now,  so  has  that  dumb  figure  fastened  on  me, 
I  rather  should  account  the  plastered  wall 
A  piece  of  him,  so  chilly  does  it  strike. 
This,  Sebald  ? 


334  PIPPA    PASSES 

Seh.  No,  the  white  wine  —  the  white  wine  ! 

Well,  Ottima,  I  promised  no  new  year 
Should  rise  on  us  the  ancient  shameful  way  ; 
Nor  does  it  rise  :  pour  on  !     To  your  black  eyes  ! 
Do  you  remember  last  damned  New  Year's  day  ? 

Otti.  You  brought  those  foreign  prints.     We  looked  at  them 
Over  the  wine  and  fruit.     I  had  to  scheme 
To  get  him  from  the  fire.     Nothing  but  saying 
His  own  set  wants  the  proof-mark,  roused  him  up 
To  hunt  them  out. 

Seh.  'Faith,  he  is  not  alive 

To  fondle  you  before  my  face. 

Otti.  Do  you 

Fondle  me  then  !     Who  means  to  take  your  life 
For  that,  my  Sebald  ? 

Seh.  Hark  you,  Ottima  ! 

One  thing  to  guard  against.     We  '11  not  make  much 
One  of  the  other  —  that  is,  not  make  more 
Parade  of  warmth,  childish  officious  coil. 
Than  yesterday  :  as  if,  sweet,  I  supposed 
Proof  upon  proof  were  needed  now,  now  first, 
To  show  I  love  you  —  yes,  still  love  you  —  love  you 
In  spite  of  Luca  and  what's  come  to  him 
^  ^'^'       —  Sure  sign  we  had  him  ever  in  our  thoughts, 
White  sneering  old  reproachful  face  and  all ! 
We  '11  even  quarrel,  love,  at  times,  as  if 
We  still  could  lose  each  other,  were  not  tied 
By  this  :  conceive  you  ? 

Otti.  Love ! 

Seh.  Not  tied  so  sure  ! 

Because  tliough  I  was  wrought  upon,  have  struck 
His  insolence  back  into  him  —  am  I 
So  surely  yours  ?  —  therefore  forever  yours  ? 

Otti.  Love,  to  be  wise,  (one  counsel  pays  another,) 
Should  we  have  —  months  ago,  when  first  we  loved, 
For  instance  that  May  morning  we  two  stole 
Under  the  green  ascent  of  sycamores  — 
If  Ave  had  come  upon  a  thing  like  that 
Suddenly  .  .   . 

Seh.  "  A  thing  "  —  there  again  —  "  a  thing !  " 

Otti.  Then,  Venus'  body,  had  we  come  upon 
My  husband  Luca  Gaddi's  nuirdered  corpse 
AVithin  tliere,  at  his  couch-foot,  covered  close  — 
AVould  you  have  pored  upon  it  ?     Why  persist 
In  poring  now  upon  it?     For  'tis  here 
As  nuicli  as  there  in  the  deserted  house : 
You  cannot  rid  your  eyes  of  it.     For  me, 


PIPPA   PASSES  335 

Now  he  is  dead  I  hate  him  worse  :   I  liate  .  .  . 
Dare  you  stay  here  ?     I  would  go  back  and  hold 
His  two  dead  hands,  and  say,  "  I  hate  you  worse, 
Luea,  than ''  .  .  . 

Seb.  Off,  off — take  your  hands  off  mine, 

'T  is  the  hot  evening  —  off  !   oh,  morning  is  it  ? 

Ottl.  There  's  one  thing  must  be  done  ;  you  know  what  thing. 
Come  in  and  help  to  carry.     We  may  sleep 
Anywhere  in  the  whole  wide  house  to-night. 

Seb.  What  would  come,  think  you,  if  we  let  him  lie 
Just  as  he  is  ?     Let  him  lie  there  until 
The  angels  take  him  !     He  is  turned  by  this 
Off  from  his  face  beside,  as  you  will  see. 

Otti.  This  dusty  pane  might  serve  for  looking-glass. 
Three,  four  —  four  gray  hairs  !     Is  it  so  you  said 
A  plait  of  hair  should  wave  across  my  neck  ? 
No  —  this  way. 

Seb.  Ottima,  I  would  give  your  neck. 

Each  splendid  shoulder,  both  those  breasts  of  yours, 
That  this  were  undone  !     Killing  !     Kill  the  world, 
So  Luea  lives  again  I  —  ay,  lives  to  sputter 
His  fulsome  dotage  on  you  —  yes,  and  feign 
Surprise  that  I  return  at  eve  to  sup, 
When  all  the  morning  I  was  loitering  here  — 
Bid  me  dispatch  my  business  and  begone. 
I  would  .  .  . 

Otti.  See ! 

Seb.  No,  1 11  finish  !     Do  you  think 

I  fear  to  speak  the  bare  truth  once  for  all  ? 
All  we  have  talked  of,  is,  at  bottom,  fine 
To  suffer  ;  there  's  a  recompense  in  guilt ; 
One  must  be  venturous  and  fortunate  ; 
What  is  one  young  for,  else  ?     In  age  we  '11  sigh 
O'er  the  wild  reckless  wicked  days  flown  over  ; 
Still,  we  have  lived  :  the  vice  was  in  its  place. 
But  to  have  eaten  Luca's  bread,  have  worn 
His  clothes,  have  felt  his  money  swell  my  purse  — 
Do  lovers  in  romances  sin  that  way  ? 
Why,  I  was  starving  when  I  used  to  call 
And  teach  you  music,  starving  while  you  plucked  me 
These  flowers  to  smell  I 

Ottl.  My  poor  lost  friend  I 

Seb.  He  gave  me 

Life,  nothing  less  :  what  if  he  did  reproach 
My  ])erfidy,  and  threaten,  and  do  more  — 
Had  he  no  riirht  ?     AVhat  was  to  wonder  at  ? 


336  PIPPA  PASSES 

He  sat  by  us  at  table  quietly  : 

Why  must  you  lean  across  till  our  cheeks  touched  ? 
Could  he  do  less  than  make  i)retence  to  strike  ? 
'T  is  not  the  crime's  sake  —  I  'd  commit  ten  crimes 
Greater,  to  have  this  crime  wiped  out,  undone  I 
And  you  —  O  how  feel  you  ?     Feel  you  for  me  ? 

Oitl.   Well  then.  I  love  you  better  now  than  ever, 
And  best  (look  at  me  while  I  speak  to  you)  — 
Best  for  the  crime  ;  nor  do  I  grieve,  in  truth, 
This  mask,  this  simulated  ignorance, 
This  affectation  of  simplicity. 
Falls  off  our  crime ;  this  naked  crime  of  ours 
May  not  now  be  looked  over  :  look  it  down ! 
Great  ?  let  it  be  great ;  but  the  joys  it  brought, 
Pay  they  or  no  its  price  ?     Come  :  they  or  it ! 
Speak  not !     The  past,  would  you  give  up  the  past 
Such  as  it  is,  pleasure  and  crime  togetlier  ? 
Give  ujD  that  noon  I  owned  my  love  for  you  ? 
Tlie  garden's  silence  !  even  the  single  bee 
Persisting  in  his  toil,  suddenly  stopped : 
And  where  he  hid  you  only  could  surmise 
By  some  campanula  chalice  set  a-swing  : 
Who  stammered  —  "  Yes,  I  love  you  ?  " 

Seb.  And  I  drew 

Back  ;  put  far  back  your  face  with  both  my  hands 
Lest  you  should  grow  too  full  of  me  —  your  face 
So  seemed  athirst  for  my  whole  soul  and  body  ! 

Otti  And  when  I  ventured  to  receive  you  here, 
Made  you  steal  hither  in  the  mornings  — 

Seb.  When 

I  used  to  look  up  'neath  the  shrub-house  here. 
Till  the  red  fire  on  its  glazed  windows  spread 
To  a  yellow  haze  ? 

Otti.  Ah  —  my  sign  was,  the  sun 

Inflamed  the  sere  side  of  yon  chestnut-tree 
Nipped  hf  the  first  frost. 

Seb.  You  would  always  laugh 

At  my  wet  boots  :  I  had  to  stride  through  grass 
Over  my  ankles. 

Otti.  Then  our  crowning  night ! 

Seb.  The  July  night  ? 

Otti.  The  day  of  it  too,  Sebald  ! 

When  heaven's  pillars  seemed  o'erbowed  with  heat, 
Its  black-blue  canopy  suffered  descend 
Close  on  us  both,  to  weigh  down  each  to  each. 
And  smother  up  all  life  except  our  life. 
So  lay  we  till  the  storm  came. 


PIPPA    PASSES  337 

Seh.  How  it  came  ^ 

Otti.  Buried  in  woods  we  lay,  you  recollect ; 
Swift  ran  the  searcliino-  teuii)est  overhead  ; 
And  ever  and  anon  some  brioht  white  shaft 
Burned  through  the  pine-tiee  roof,  here  burned  and  there, 
As  if  God's  messenger  through  the  close  wood  screen 
Plunged  and  replunged  his  weapon  at  a  ventm'e, 
Feeling  for  guilty  thee  and  me  :   then  broke 
The  thunder  like  a  whole  sea  overhead  — 

Seb.  Yes  ! 

Otti  —  While  I  stretched  myself  upon  you,  hands 
To  hands,  my  mouth  to  your  hot  mouth,  and  shook  " 
All  my  locks  loose,  and  covered  you  with  them  — 
You,  Sebald,  the  same  you  ! 

Seb.  Slower,  Ottima  ! 

Otti.  And  as  we  lay  — 

Seb.  Less  vehemently  !     Love  me  ! 

Forgive  me  I     Take  not  words,  mere  words,  to  heart ! 
Your  breath  is  worse  than  wine.     Breathe  slow,  speak  slow ! 
Do  not  lean  on  me  I 

Otti.  Sebald,  as  we  lay, 

Rising  and  falling  only  with  our  pants. 
Who  said,  "  Let  death  come  now  !      'T  is  right  to  die  ! 
Right  to  be  punished  !     Nought  completes  such  bliss 
But  woe  !  "     Who  said  that  ? 

Seb.  How  did  we  ever  rise  ? 

Was 't  that  we  slept  ?     Why  did  it  end  ? 

Otti.  I  felt  you 

Taper  into  a  point  the  ruffled  ends 

Of  my  loose  locks  'twixt  both  your  humid  lips.  f 

My  hair  is  fallen  now :  knot  it  again  ! 

Seb.  I  kiss  you  now,  dear  Ottima,  now  and  now ! 
This  way  ?     Will  you  forgive  me  —  be  once  more 
My  great  queen? 

Otti.  Bind  it  thrice  about  my  brow ; 

Crown  me  your  queen,  your  spirit's  arbitress, 
Magnificent  in  sin.     Say  that ! 

Seb.  I  crown  you 

My  great  white  queen,  my  spirit's  arbitress, 
Magnificent  .  .  . 

[From  without  is  heard  the  voice  of  Pippa  singing  — 

The  year 's  at  the  spring 
And  day  's  at  the  morn  ; 
Morning 's  at  seven  ; 
The  hillside 's  dew-pearled  ; 


338  PIPPA   PASSES 

The  lark  's  on  the  luing ; 
The  snail 's  on  the  thorn : 
God  's  in  his  heaven  — 
All 's  right  with  the  world  ! 

[PippA  passes. 

Seb.  God  's  in  his  heaven  !  Do  you  hear  that  ?  Who  spoke  ? 
You,  you  spoke  I 

Otti.  Oh —  that  little  ragged  girl ! 

She  must  have  rested  on  the  step  :  we  give  them 
But  this  one  holiday  the  whole  year  round. 
Did  you  ever  see  our  silk-mills  —  their  inside  ? 
There  are  ten  silk-mills  now  belong  to  you. 
She  stoops  to  pick  my  double  heartsease  .   .  .  Sh ! 
She  does  not  hear  :  call  you  out  louder  ! 

Seb.  Leave  me  ! 

Go,  g-et  your  clothes  on  —  dress  those  shoulders  ! 

Otti.  Sebald? 

JSeb.  WijDe  off  that  paint !     I  hate  you  ! 

Otti.  Miserable ! 

Seb.  My  God,  and  she  is  emptied  of  it  now  ! 
Outright  now  !  — how  miraculously  gone 
All  of  the  grace  —  had  she  not  strange  grace  once  ? 
Why,  the  blank  cheek  hangs  listless  as  it  likes, 
No  purpose  holds  the  features  up  together, 
Only  the  cloven  brow  and  puckered  chin 
Stay  in  their  places  :  and  the  very  hair, 
That  seemed  to  have  a  sort  of  life  in  it. 
Drops,  a  dead  web ! 

Otti.  Speak  to  me  —  not  of  me  ! 

Seb.  —  That  round  great  full-orbed  face,  where  not  an  angle 
Broke  the  delicious  indolence  —  all  broken  I 

Otti.  To  me  —  not  of  me  !     Ungrateful,  perjured  cheat! 
A  coward  too :  but  ingrate  's  worse  than  all ! 
Beggar  —  my  slave  —  a  fawning,  cringing  lie  ! 
Leave  me !     Betray  me  !     I  can  see  your  drift ! 
A  lie  that  walks  and  eats  and  drinks  ! 

Seb.  _  My  God! 

Those  morbid  olive  faultless  shoulder-blades  — 
I  should  have  known  there  Avas  no  blood  beneath  ! 

Otti.  You  hate  me  then  ?     You  hate  me  then  ? 

Seb.  To  think 

She  would  succeed  in  her  absurd  attempt. 
And  fascinate  by  sinning,  show  herself 
Superior  —  guilt  from  its  excess  superior 
To  innocence  !     That  little  peasant's  voice 


PIPPA    PASSES  339 

Has  righted  all  again.     Though  I  be  lost, 

I  know  which  is  the  better,  never  fear, 

Of  vice  or  virtue,  purity  or  lust, 

Nature  or  trick  !     I  see  what  I  have  done. 

Entirely  now  I     Oh  I  am  proud  to  feel 

Such  torments  —  let  the  world  take  credit  thence  — 

I,  having  done  my  deed,  pay  too  its  price  I 

I  hate,  hate  —  curse  you  !     God  's  in  his  heaven  ! 

Otti.  —  Me  ! 

Me  !   no,  no,  Sebald,  not  yourself  —  kill  me  ! 
Mine  is  the  whole  crime.     Do  but  kill  me  —  then 
Yourself  —  then  —  presently  —  first  hear  me  speak  ! 
I  always  meant  to  kill  myself  —  w^ait,  you  ! 
Lean  on  my  breast  —  not  as  a  breast ;  don't  love  me 
The  more  because  you  lean  on  me,  my  own 
Heart's  Sebald  !     There,  there,  both  deaths  presently  ! 

Seb.  My  brain  is  drowned  now  —  quite  drowned  ;  all  I  feel 
Is  .   .   .  is,  at  swift-recurring  intervals, 
A  hurry-down  within  me,  as  of  waters 
Loosened  to  smother  up  some  ghastly  pit  : 
There  they  go  —  whirls  from  a  black  fiery  sea  ! 

Otti.  Not  me  —  to  him,  0  God,  be  merciful  I 


Talk  hy  the  icay,  lohile  Pippa  is  passing  from  the  Hillside  to  Orcana. 
Foreign  Students  of  Painting  and  Sculpture,  from  Venice,  assem- 
bled opposite  the  house  of  Jules,  a  young  French  Statuary,  at 
Possagno. 

1st  Student.  Attention  !  My  own  post  is  beneath  this  win- 
dow, but  the  pomegranate  clump  yonder  will  hide  three  or  four 
of  you  with  a  little  squeezing,  and  Schramm  and  his  pipe  must 
lie  flat  in  the  balcony.  Four,  five  —  who  's  a  defaulter  ?  We 
want  everybody,  for  Jules  must  not  be  suffered  to  hurt  his  bride 
when  the  jest 's  found  out. 

2d  Stud.  All  here  !  Only  our  poet 's  away  —  never  having 
much  meant  to  be  present,  moonstrike  him  I  The  airs  of  that 
fellow,  that  Giovacchino  I  He  was  in  violent  love  with  himself, 
and  had  a  fair  prospect  of  thriving  in  his  suit,  so  unmolested 
was  it,  —  when  suddenly  a  woman  falls  in  love  with  him,  too ; 
and  out  of  pure  jealousy  he  takes  himself  off  to  Trieste,  immor- 
tal poem  and  all :  whereto  is  this  prophetical  e2)itaph  appended 
already,  as  Bluphocks  assures  me,  —  '"Here  a  mam  moth-poem 
lies.  Fouled  to  death  by  butterflies''  His  own  fault,  the  sim- 
pleton I  Instead  of  cramp  couplets,  each  like  a  knife  in  your 
entrails,  he  should  write,  says  Bluphocks,  both  classically  and 
intelligiljly.  —  Msculapius.,  an  Epic.     Catalogue  of  the  drugs  : 


340  PIPPA   PASSES 

Hebe's  plaister  —  One  strij)  Cools  your  Up.  Phcebus'  eimd- 
siori  —  One  bottle  Clears  your  throttle.  Mercury's  bolus  —  One 
box  Cures  .  .  . 

3fZ  Stud.  Subside,  my  fine  fellow !  If  the  marriage  was 
over  by  ten  o'clock,  Jules  will  certainly  be  here  in  a  minute  with 
his  bride. 

2d  Stud.  Good  !  —  only,  so  should  the  poet's  muse  have  been 
universally  acceptable,  says  Bluphocks,  et  canibus  nostrls  .  .  . 
and  Delia  not  better  known  to  our  literary  dogs  than  the  boy 
Giovacchino  ! 

1st  Stud.  To  the  point,  now.  Where  's  Gottlieb,  the  new- 
comer ?  Oh,  —  listen,  Gottlieb,  to  what  has  called  down  this 
piece  of  friendly  vengeance  on  Jules,  of  which  we  now  assemble 
to  witness  the  winding-up.  We  are  all  agreed,  all  in  a  tale,  ob- 
serve, when  Jules  shall  burst  out  on  us  in  a  fury  by  and  by  :  I 
am  spokesman  —  the  verses  that  are  to  undeceive  Jules  bear  my 
name  of  Lutwyche  —  but  each  professes  himself  alike  insulted 
by  this  strutting  stone-squarer,  who  came  alone  from  Paris  to 
Munich,  and  thence  with  a  crowd  of  us  to  Venice  and  Possagno 
here,  but  proceeds  in  a  day  or  two  alone  again  —  oh,  alone  in- 
dubitably !  —  to  Rome  and  Florence.  He,  forsooth,  take  up 
his  portion  with  these  dissolute,  brutalized,  heartless  bunglers  !  — 
so  he  was  heard  to  call  us  all.  Now,  is  Schramm  brutalized,  I 
should  like  to  know  ?     Am  I  heartless  ? 

Gott.  Why,  somewhat  heartless  ;  for,  suppose  Jules  a  cox- 
comb as  much  as  you  choose,  still,  for  this  mere  coxcombry,  you 
will  have  brushed  off  —  what  do  folks  style  it  ?  —  the  bloom  of 
his  life.  Is  it  too  late  to  alter  ?  These  love-letters  now,  you 
call  his  —  I  can't  laugh  at  them. 

Aith  Stud.  Because  you  never  read  the  sham  letters  of  our  in- 
diting which  drew  forth  these. 

Gott.  His  discovery  of  the  truth  will  be  frightfid. 

4dh  Stud.  That 's  the  joke.  But  you  should  have  joined  us 
at  the  beginning :  there  's  no  doubt  he  loves  the  girl  —  loves  a 
model  he  might  hire  by  the  hour  ! 

Gott.  See  here  !  "  He  has  been  accustomed,"  he  writes,  "  to 
have  Canova's  women  about  him,  in  stone,  and  the  world's 
women  beside  him,  in  flesh  ;  these  being  as  much  below,  as 
those,  above  his  soul's  aspiration  :  but  now  he  is  to  have  the 
reality."  There  you  laugh  again  !  I  say,  you  wipe  off  the  very 
dew  of  his  youth. 

1.9^  Stud.  Schramm  !  (Take  tlie  pipe  out  of  his  mouth, 
somebody  !)     Will  Jules  lose  the  bloom  of  his  youth  ? 

Schramm.  Nothing  worth  keeping  is  ever  lost  in  this  world  : 
look  at  a  blossom  —  it  drops  presently,  having  done  its  service 
and  lasted  its  time ;  but  fruits  succeed,  and  where  would  be  the 


PIPPA   PASSES  341 

blossom's  place  eoiild  it  continae  ?  As  well  affirm  that  your  eye 
is  no  longer  in  your  body,  because  its  earliest  favorite,  whatever 
it  may  have  first  loved  to  look  on,  is  dead  and  done  with  —  as 
that  any  affection  is  lost  to  the  soul  when  its  first  object,  what- 
ever happened  first  to  satisfy  it,  is  superseded  in  due  course. 
Keep  but  ever  looking,  whether  with  the  body's  eye  or  the 
mind's,  and  you  will  soon  find  something  to  look  on  !  Has  a 
man  done  wondering  at  women  ?  —  there  follow  men,  dead  and 
alive,  to  wonder  at.  Has  he  done  wondering  at  men  ?  —  there  's 
God  to  wonder  at :  and  the  faculty  of  wonder  may  be,  at  tlie 
same  time,  old  and  tired  enough  with  respect  to  its  first  object, 
and  yet  young  and  fresh  sufficiently,  so  far  as  concerns  its  novel 
one.     Thus  .   .   . 

1st  Stud.  Put  Schramm's  pipe  into  his  mouth  again !  There, 
you  see !  Well,  this  Jules  ...  a  wretched  fribble  —  oh,  I 
watched  his  disportings  at  Possagno,  the  other  day  I  Canova's 
gallery  —  you  know  :  there  he  marches  first  resolvedly  past 
great  works  by  the  dozen  without  vouchsafing  an  eye :  all  at 
once  he  stops  full  at  the  Psiche-fanclulla  —  cannot  pass  that  old 
acquaintance  without  a  nod  of  encouragement  —  "  In  your  new 
place,  beauty  ?  Then  behave  yourself  as  well  here  as  at  Munich 
—  I  see  you  !  "  Next  he  posts  himself  deliberately  before  the 
unfinished  Pleth  for  half  an  hour  without  moving,  till  up  he  starts 
of  a  sudden,  and  thrusts  his  very  nose  into  —  I  say,  into  —  the 
groujD ;  by  which  gesture  you  are  informed  that  precisely  the 
sole  point  he  had  not  fully  mastered  in  Canova's  practice  was  a 
certain  method  of  using  the  drill  in  the  articulation  of  the  knee- 
joint  —  and  that,  likewise,  has  he  mastered  at  length  !  Good-bye 
therefore,  to  jjoor  Canova  —  wliose  gallery  no  longer  needs  de- 
tain his  successor  Jules,  the  predestinated  novel  thinker  in 
marble  ! 

6th  Stud.  Tell  him  about  the  women  :  go  on  to  the  women  I 
\st  Stud.  Why,  on  that  matter  he  could  never  be  supercilious 
enough.  How  should  we  be  other  (he  said)  than  the  poor  devils 
you  see,  with  those  debasing  habits  we  cherish  ?  He  was  not  to 
wallow  in  that  mire,  at  least :  he  would  wait,  and  love  only  at 
the  proper  time,  and  meanwhile  ])\xt\\])  with  \he  Psiche-fdnclulla. 
Now,  I  happened  to  hear  of  a  young  Greek  —  real  Greek  girl 
at  Malamocco  ;  a  true  Islander,  do  you  see,  with  Alciphron's 
"  hair  like  sea-moss  "  —  Schramm  knows  !  —  white  and  quiet  as 
an  apparition,  and  fourteen  years  old  at  farthest.  —  a  daughter 
of  Natalia,  so  she  swears  —  that  hag  Natalia,  who  helps  us  to 
models  at  three  lire  an  hour.  We  selected  this  girl  for  the 
heroine  of  our  jest.  So  first,  Jules  received  a  scented  letter  — 
somebody  had  seen  his  Tydeus  at  the  academy,  and  my  picture 
was  nothing  to  it :  a  profound  admirer  bade  him  persevere  — 


342  PIPPA   PASSES 

would  make  herself  known  to  him  ere  long.  (Paolina,  my  lit- 
tle friend  of  the  Fenice,  transcribes  divinely.)  And  in  due  time, 
the  mysterious  correspondent  gave  certain  hints  of  her  peculiar 
charms  —  the  pale  cheeks,  the  black  hair  —  whatever,  in  short, 
had  struck  us  in  our  Malamocco  model :  we  retained  her  name, 
too  —  Phene,  which  is,  by  interjjretation,  sea-eagle.  Now,  think 
of  Jules  finding  himself  distinguished  from  the  herd  of  us  by 
such  a  creature  !  In  his  very  first  answer  he  proposed  marrying 
his  monitress  :  and  fancy  us  over  these  letters,  two,  three  times 
a  day,  to  receive  and  dispatch  !  1  concocted  the  main  of  it : 
relations  were  in  the  way  —  secrecy  must  be  observed  —  in  fine, 
would  he  wed  her  on  trust,  and  only  speak  to  her  when  they 
were  indissolubly  united  ?     St  —  st  —  Here  they  come  ! 

Qth  Stud.  Both  of  them  !  Heaven's  love,  sjDeak  softly,  speak 
within  yourselves  ! 

bth  Stud.  Look  at  the  bridegroom  !  Half  his  hair  in  storm 
and  half  in  calm,  —  patted  down  over  the  left  temple,  —  like  a 
frothy  cup  one  blows  on  to  cool  it :  and  the  same  old  blouse  that 
he  murders  the  marble  in. 

2d  Stud.  Not  a  rich  vest  like  yours,  Hannibal  Scratchy !  — 
rich,  that  your  face  may  the  better  set  it  off. 

Q>th  Stud.  And  the  bride  !  Yes,  sure  enough,  our  Phene ! 
Should  you  have  known  her  in  her  clothes  "^  How  magnificently 
pale ! 

Gott.  She  does  not  also  take  it  for  earnest,  I  hope  ? 

1st  St2id.  Oh,  Natalia's  concern,  that  is  !  We  settle  with 
Natalia. 

6th  Stud.  She  does  not  speak  —  has  evidently  let  out  no 
word.  The  only  thing  is,  will  she  equally  remember  the  rest  of 
her  lesson,  and  repeat  correctly  all  those  verses  which  are  to 
break  the  secret  to  Jules  ? 

Gott.  How  he  gazes  on  her  !     Pity  —  pity  ! 

1st  Stud.  They  go  in  :  now,  silence  !  You  three,  —  not 
nearer  the  window,  mind,  than  that  pomegranate  :  just  where 
the  little  girl,  who  a  few  minutes  ago  passed  us  singing,  is 
seated ! 


II.    NOON.     Over  Orcana.      The  house  of  Jules,   toho  crosses  its 
threshold  with  Phene  :  she  is  silent,  on  ichich  Jules  begins  — 

Do  not  die,  Phene  !     I  am  yours  now,  you 
Are  mine  now  ;  let  fate  reach  me  how  she  likes, 
If  you  '11  not  die  :  so,  never  die  !      Sit  here  — 
My  work-room's  single  seat.     I  over-lean 
This  length  of  hair  and  lustrous  front ;  they  turn 


PIPPA    PASSES  343 

Like  an  entire  flower  upward  :  eyes,  lips,  last 
Your  chin  —  no,  last  your  throat  turns  :   't  is  their  scent 
Pulls  down  my  face  upon  you.     Nay,  look  ever 
This  one  way  till  I  change,  grow  you  —  I  could 
Change  into  you,  beloved  ! 

You  by  me, 
And  I  by  you  ;  this  is  your  hand  in  mine, 
And  side  by  side  we  sit :  all 's  true.     Thank  God  ! 
I  have  spoken  :  si3eak  you  ! 

0  my  life  to  come  ! 
My  Tydeus  must  be  carved  that 's  there  in  clay ; 
Yet  how  be  carved,  with  you  about  the  room  ? 
Wliere  must  I  place  you  ?     When  I  think  that  once 
This  room-full  of  rough  block-work  seemed  my  heaven 
Without  you  !      Shall  I  ever  work  again, 
Get  fairly  into  my  old  ways  again, 
Bid  each  conception  stand,  while,  trait  by  trait, 
My  hand  transfers  its  lineaments  to  stone  ? 
Will  my  mere  fancies  live  near  you,  their  truth  — 
The  live  truth,  passing  and  repassing  me, 
Sitting  beside  me  ? 

Now  speak ! 

Only  first, 
See,  all  your  letters  !     Was  't  not  well  contrived  ? 
Their  hiding-place  is  Psyche's  robe  ;  she  keeps 
Your  letters  next  her  skin :  which  drops  out  foremost  ? 
Ah,  —  this  that  swam  down  like  a  first  moonbeam 
Into  my  world  ! 

Again  those  eyes  complete 
Their  melancholy  survey,  sweet  and  slow, 
Of  all  my  room  holds ;  to  return  and  rest 
On  me,  with  pity,  yet  some  wonder  too  : 
As  if  God  bade  some  spirit  plague  a  world, 
And  this  were  the  one  moment  of  surprise 
And  sorrow  while  she  took  her  station,  pausing 
O'er  what  she  sees,  finds  good,  and  must  destroy  ! 
What  gaze  you  at  ?     Those  ?     Books,  I  told  you  of  ; 
Let  your  first  word  to  me  rejoice  them,  too : 
This  minion,  a  Coluthus,  writ  in  red, 
Bistre  and  azure  by  Bessarion's  scribe  — 
Read  this  line  .  .  .  no,  shame  —  Homer's  be  the  Greek 
First  breathed  me  from  the  lips  of  my  Greek  girl ! 
This  Odyssey  in  coarse  black  vivid  type 
With  faded  yellow  blossoms  'twixt  page  and  page, 
To  mark  great  places  with  due  gratitude  ; 
IPe  said,  and  on  Afitmous  directed 


M4:  PIPPA   PASSES 

A  hitter  shaft  "...  a  flower  blots  out  the  rest ! 
Ao-ain  upon  your  search  ?     My  statues,  then  ! 
—  Ah,  do  not  mind  that  —  better  that  will  look 
When  cast  in  bronze  —  an  Almaign  Kaiser,  that, 
Swart-green  and  gold,  with  truncheon  based  on  hip. 
This,  rather,  turn  to  !      What,  unrecognized  ? 
I  thought  you  would  have  seen  that  here  you  sit 
As  I  imagined  you,  —  Hippolyta, 
Naked  upon  her  bright  Numidian  horse. 
Recall  you  this  then  ?     "  Carve  in  bold  relief  "  — 
So  you  commanded  —  "  carve,  against  I  come, 
A  Greek,  in  Athens,  as  our  fashion  was, 
Feasting,  bay-filleted  and  thunder-free. 
Who  rises  'neath  the  lifted  myrtle-branch. 
'  Praise  those  w^ho  slew  Hipparchus !  '   cry  the  guests, 
'  While  o'er  thy  head  the  singer's  myrtle  waves 
As  erst  above  our  chamjnon :   stand  up,  all !  '  " 
See,  I  have  labored  to  express  your  thought. 
Quite  round,  a  cluster  of  mere  hands  and  arms 
(Thrust  in  all  senses,  all  ways,  from  all  sides, 
Only  consenting  at  the  branch's  end 
They  strain  toward)  serves  for  frame  to  a  sole  face. 
The  Praiser's,  in  the  centre :   who  with  eyes 
Sightless,  so  bend  they  back  to  light  inside 
His  brain  where  visionary  forms  throng  up. 
Sings,  minding  not  that  palpitating  arch 
Of  hands  and  arms,  nor  the  quick  drip  of  wine 
From  the  drenched  leaves  o'erhead.  nor  crowns  cast  off, 
Violet  and  parsley  crowns  to  trample  on  — 
Sings,  pausing  as  the  patron-ghosts  approve. 
Devoutly  their  unconquerable  liymn. 
But  you  must  say  a  "  well  "  to  that  —  say  "  well "  ! 
Because  you  gaze  —  am  I  fantastic,  sweet  ? 
Gaze  like  my  very  life's-stuff,  marble  —  marbly 
Even  to  the  silence  !      Why,  before  I  found 
The  real  flesh  Phene,  I  inured  myself 
To  see,  throughout  all  nature,  varied  stuff 
For  better  nature's  birth  by  means  of  art : 
With  me,  each  substance  tended  to  one  form 
Of  beauty  —  to  the  human  archetype. 
On  every  side  occurred  suggestive  germs 
Of  that  —  the  tree,  the  flower  —  or  take  the  fruit,  — 
Some  rosy  shape,  continuing  the  peach, 
Curved  beevvise  o'er  its  bough  ;  as  rosy  limbs, 
Depending,  nestled  in  the  leaves  ;  and  just 
From  a  cleft  rose-peach  the  wdiole  Dryad  sprang. 


PIPPA   PASSES  345 

But  of  the  stuffs  one  can  be  master  of, 

How  I  divined  their  capabilities  ! 

From  the  soft-rinded  smootiiening  facile  chalk 

That  yields  your  outline  to  the  air's  embrace, 

Half-softened  by  a  halo's  pearly  gloom  ; 

Down  to  tlie  crisp  imjierious  steel,  so  sure 

To  cut  its  one  confided  thought  clean  out 

Of  all  the  world.     But  marble  !  —  'neath  my  tools 

More  pliable  than  jelly  —  as  it  were 

Some  clear  primordial  creatm-e  dug  from  depths 

In  the  earth's  heart,  where  itself  breeds  itself. 

And  whence  all  baser  substance  may  be  worked ; 

Refine  it  off  to  air,  you  may,  —  condense  it 

Down  to  the  diamond  ;  —  is  not  metal  there. 

When  o'er  the  sudden  speck  my  chisel  trips  ? 

—  Not  flesh,  as  flake  off  flake  I  scale,  approach, 

Lay  bare  those  bluish  veins  of  blood  asleep  ? 

Lurks  flame  in  no  strange  windings  where,  surprised 

By  the  swift  implement  sent  home  at  once, 

Flushes  and  glowings  radiate  and  hover 

About  its  track  ? 

Phene  ?  what  —  why  is  this  ? 
That  whitening  cheek,  those  still-dilating  eyes ! 
Ah,  you  will  die  —  I  knew  that  you  would  die ! 

Phene  begins,  on  his  having  long  remained  silent. 

Now  the  end 's  coming ;  to  be  sure,  it  must 
Have  ended  sometime !     Tush,  why  need  I  speak 
Their  foolish  speech  ?     I  cannot  bring  to  mind 
One  half  of  it,  beside  ;  and  do  not  care 
For  old  Natalia  now,  nor  any  of  them. 
Oh,  you  —  what  are  you  ?  —  if  I  do  not  try- 
To  say  the  words  Natalia  made  me  learn. 
To  please  your  friends,  —  it  is  to  keep  myself 
Where  your  voice  lifted  me,  by  letting  that 
Proceed :  but  can  it  ?     Even  you,  perhaps, 
Cannot  take  up,  now  you  have  once  let  fall, 
The  music's  life,  and  me  along  with  that  — 
No,  or  you  would  !     We  '11  stay,  then,  as  we  are  : 
Above  the  world. 

You  creature  with  the  eyes ! 
If  I  could  look  forever  up  to  them. 
As  now  you  let  me,  —  I  believe,  all  sin, 
All  memory  of  wrong  done,  suffering  borne. 
Would  drop  down,  low  and  lower,  to  the  earth 
Whence  all  that 's  low  comes,  and  there  touch  and  stay 


346  PIPPA  PASSES 

—  Never  to  overtake  the  rest  of  me, 
All  that,  unspotted,  reaches  up  to  you. 
Drawn  by  those  eyes  !     What  rises  is  myself, 
Not  me  the  shame  and  suffering ;  but  they  sink, 
Are  left,  I  rise  above  them.     Keep  me  so, 
Above  the  world ! 

But  you  sink,  for  your  eyes 
Are  altering  —  altered  !     Stay  —  "I  love  you,  love  " 
I  could  prevent  it  if  I  understood  : 
More  of  your  words  to  me  :  was 't  in  the  tone 
Or  the  words,  your  power  ? 

Or  stay  —  I  will  repeat 
Their  speech,  if  that  contents  you !     Only  change 
No  more,  and  I  shall  find  it  presently 
Far  back  here,  in  the  brain  yourself  filled  up. 
Natalia  threatened  me  that  harm  should  follow 
Unless  I  spoke  their  lesson  to  the  end. 
But  harm  to  me,  I  thought  she  meant,  not  you. 
Your  friends,  —  Natalia  said  they  were  your  friends 
And  meant  you  well,  —  because,  I  doubted  it, 
Observing  (what  was  very  strange  to  see) 
On  every  face,  so  different  in  all  else. 
The  same  smile  girls  like  me  are  used  to  bear, 
But  never  men,  men  cannot  stoop  so  low  ; 
Yet  your  friends,  speaking  of  you,  used  that  smile, 
That  hateful  smirk  of  boundless  self-conceit 
Which  seems  to  take  possession  of  the  world 
And  make  of  God  a  tame  confederate. 
Purveyor  to  their  appetites  .  .  .  you  know ! 
But  still  Natalia  said  they  were  your  friends. 
And  they  assented  though  they  smiled  the  more. 
And  all  came  round  me,  —  that  thin  Englishman 
With  light  lank  hair  seemed  leader  of  the  rest ; 
He  held  a  paper  — ''  What  we  want,"  said  he, 
Ending  some  explanation  to  his  friends  — 
"  Is  something  slow,  involved  and  mystical. 
To  hold  Jules  long  in  doubt,  yet  take  his  taste 
And  lure  him  on  until,  at  innermost 
Where  he  seeks  sweetness'  soul,  he  may  find  —  this  ! 

—  As  in  the  apple's  core,  the  noisome  fly  : 
For  insects  on  the  rind  are  seen  at  once. 
And  brushed  aside  as  soon,  but  this  is  found 
Only  when  on  the  lips  or  loathing  tongue." 
And  so  he  read  what  I  have  got  by  heart : 

I  '11  speak  it,  —  "  Do  not  die,  love  !      I  am  yours  "  .  . 
No  —  is  not  that,  or  like  that,  part  of  words 


PIP PA   PASSES  347 

Yourself  began  by  speaking  ?     Strange  to  lose 
What  cost  such  pains  to  learn  !     Is  this  more  right  ? 

I  am  a  painter  who  cannot  'paint  ; 
In  my  life,  a  devil  rather  than  saint, 
In  mij  brain,  as  poor  a  creature  too: 
No  end  to  all  1  cannot  do  ! 
Yet  do  one  thing  at  least  I  can  — 
Love  a  man  or  hate  a  man 
Supremely  :  thus  my  love  heyan. 
Through  the  Valley  of  Love  I  went, 
In  the  lov ingest  spot  to  abide, 
And  just  on  the  verge  where  I  pitched  my  tent, 
I  found  Hate  dwelling  beside. 
{Let'  the  Bridegroom  ask  what  the  painter  meant, 
Of  his  Bride,  of  the  peerless  Bride  !) 
And  further,  I  traversed  Hates  grove, 
In  the  hatefullest  nook  to  dwell  ; 
But  lo,  ivhere  I  flung  myself  prone,  couched  Love 
Where  the  shadow  threefold  fell. 
{The  meaning  —  those  black  brides  eyes  above, 
Not  a  painter's  lip  shoidd  tell !) 

"  And  here,"  said  he,  "  Jules  probably  will  ask, 
'  You  have  black  eyes,  Love,  —  you  are,  sure  enough. 
My  peerless  bride,  —  then  do  you  tell  indeed 
What  needs  some  explanation  !     What  means  this  ?  '  " 
—  And  I  am  to  go  on,  without  a  word  — 

So,  I  grew  tcise  in  Love  and  Hate, 

From  simple  that  I  was  of  late. 

Once,  when  I  loved,  I  would  enlace 

Breast,  eyelids,  hands,  feet,  form  and  face 

Of  her  I  loved,  in  one  embrace  — 

As  if  by  Tnere  love  I  could  love  immensely  ! 

Once,  when  I  hated,  I  would  pdunge 

3Iy  sword,  and  wipe  with  the  first  lunge 

My  foe's  whole  life  out  like  a  sponge  — 

As  if  by  mere  hate  I  could  hate  intensely  ! 

But  now  I  am  wiser ^  know  better  the  fashion 

How  passion  seeks  aid  from  its  opposite  passion: 

And  if  I  see  cause  to  love  more,  hate  more 

Than  ever  man  loved,  ever  hated  before  — 

And  seek  in  the  Valley  of  Love 

The  nest,  or  the  nook  in  Hate's  Grove, 

Where  my  soul  may  surely  reach 


348  PIPPA   PASSES 

The  essence,  nought  less,  of  each, 

The  Hate  of  all  Hates,  the  Love 

Of  all  Loves,  in  the  Valley  or  Grove,  — 

I  find  them  the  very  warders 

Each  of  the  other's  borders. 

When  I  love  most.  Love  is  disguised 

In  Hate  ;  and  when  Hate  is  surj^rised 

In  Love,  then  I  hate  most :  ask 

How  Love  smiles  through  Hate's  iron  casque. 

Hate  grins  through  Love's  rose-braided  mask,  — 

And  how,  having  hated  thee, 

I  sought  long  and  iKiinfully 

To  reach  thy  heart,  nor  prick 

The  skin  but  pierce  to  the  quick  — 

Ask  this,  my  Jides,  and  be  answered  straight 

By  thy  bride  —  how  the  painter  Lutiuyche  can  hate ! 

Jules  interposes. 

Liitwyche  !     Who  else  ?     But  all  of  them,  no  doubt, 
Hated  me  :  they  at  Venice  —  presently 
Their  turn,  however  !     You  I  shall  not  meet : 
If  I  dreamed,  saying  this  would  wake  me. 

Keep 
What 's  here,  the  gold  —  we  cannot  meet  again. 
Consider  !  and  the  money  was  but  meant 
For  two  years'  travel,  which  is  over  now. 
All  chance  or  hope  or  care  or  need  of  it. 
This  —  and  what  comes  from  selling  these,  my  casts 
And  books  and  medals,  except  ...  let  them  go 
Together,  so  the  produce  keeps  you  safe 
Out  of  Natalia's  clutches !  —  If  by  chance 
(For  all's  chance  here)  I  should  survive  the  gang 
At  Venice,  root  out  all  fifteen  of  them, 
We  might  meet  somewhere,  since  the  world  is  wide. 

[From  ivithout  is  heard  the  voice  of  Pippa,  singing  — 

Give  her  but  a  least  excuse  to  love  me  / 

When  —  ivhere  — 

How  —  can  this  arm  establish  her  above  me, 

If  fortune  fixed  her  as  my  lady  there. 

There  already,  to  eternally  reprove  me  ? 
("  Hist  /  "  — said  Kate  the  Queen  : 
But  "  Oh  "  — cried  the  maiden,  binding  her  tresses, 
^^'Tis  only  a  2mge  that  carols  unseen. 
Crumbling  your  hounds  their  messes  !  ") 


PIPPA    PASSES  349 

Is  she  wronged  ?  —  To  the  rescue  of  her  honor, 

My  heart ! 

Is  she  poor  ?  —  What  costs  it  to  be  styled  a  donor  ? 

Merely  an  earth  to  cleave,  a  sea  to  part. 

But  that  fortune  should  have  thrust  all  this  upon  her  ! 

(''  l^ay,  list!  "  — hade  Kate  the  Queen ; 

And  still  cried  tlw  maiden,  binding  her  tresses, 

"  ' T  is  only  a  page  that  carols  unseen, 

Fitting  your  JiawJcs  their  jesses  I  ")  [Vifv a  passes. 

Jules  resumes. 

What  name  was  that  the  little  girl  sang  forth  ? 
Kate  ?     The  Cornaro,  doubtless,  who  renounced 
The  crown  of  Cyprus  to  be  lady  here 
At  Asolo,  where  still  her  memory  stays, 
And  peasants  sing  how  once  a  certain  page 
Pined  for  the  grace  of  her  so  far  above 
His  power  of  doing  good  to  '^  Kate  the  Queen  — 
She  never  could  be  wronged,  be  poor,"  he  sighed, 
Need  him  to  help  her  I  " 

Yes,  a  bitter  thing 
To  see  our  lady  above  all  need  of  us  ; 
Yet  so  we  look  ere  we  will  love  ;  not  I, 
But  the  world  looks  so.     If  whoever  loves 
Must  be,  in  some  sort,  god  or  worshipper, 
The  blessing  or  the  blest  one,  queen  or  page, 
Why  should  we  always  choose  the  page's  part  ? 
Here  is  a  woman  with  utter  need  of  me, — 
I  find  myself  queen  here,  it  seems  ! 

How  strange ! 
Look  at  the  woman  here  with  the  new  soul, 
Like  my  own  Psyche,  —  fresh  upon  her  lips 
Alit,  the  visionary  butterfly. 
Waiting  my  word  to  enter  and  make  bright, 
Or  flutter  off  and  leave  all  blank  as  first. 
This  body  had  no  soul  before,  but  slept 
Or  stirred,  was  beauteous  or  ungainly,  free 
From  taint  or  foul  with  stain,  as  outward  things 
Fastened  their  image  on  its  passiveness  : 
Now,  it  will  wake,  feel,  live  —  or  die  again  ! 
Shall  to  produce  form  out  of  unshaped  stuff 
Be  Art  —  and  further,  to  evoke  a  soul 
From  form  be  nothing  ?     This  new  soul  is  mine  ! 

Now,  to  kill  Lutwyche,  what  would  that  do  ?  —  save 
A  wretched  dauber,  men  will  hoot  to  death 


350  PIPPA   PASSES 

Without  me,  from  their  hooting.     Oh,  to  hear 
God's  voice  plain  as  I  heard  it  first,  before 
They  broke  in  with  their  laughter  I     I  heard  them 
Henceforth,  not  God. 

To  Ancona  —  Greece  —  some  isle ! 
I  wanted  silence  only ;  there  is  clay 
Everywhere.     One  may  do  whate'er  one  likes 
In  Art :  the  only  thing  is,  to  make  sure 
That  one  does  like  it  —  which  takes  pains  to  know. 

vScatter  all  this,  my  Phene  —  this  mad  dream  I 
Who,  what  is  Lutwyche,  what  Natalia's  friends, 
What  the  whole  world  excejjt  our  love  —  my  own, 
Own  Phene  ?     But  I  told  you,  did  I  not, 
Ere  night  we  travel  for  your  land  —  some  isle 
With  the  sea's  silence  on  it  ?     Stand  aside  — 
I  do  but  break  these  paltry  models  up 
To  begin  Art  afresh.     Meet  Lutwyche,  I  — 
And  save  him  from  my  statue  meeting  him  ? 
Some  unsuspected  isle  in  the  far  seas  ! 
Like  a  god  going  through  his  world,  there  stands 
One  mountain  for  a  moment  in  the  dusk, 
AVhole  brotherhoods  of  cedars  on  its  brow  : 
And  you  are  ever  by  me  while  I  gaze 
—  Are  in  my  arms  as  now  —  as  now  —  as  now ! 
Some  unsuspected  isle  in  the  far  seas  ! 
Some  misuspected  isle  in  far-off  seas ! 


Talk  hy  the  ivay,  ichile  Pippa  is  passing  from  Orcana  to  the  Turret. 
Two  or  three  of  the  Austrian  Police  loitering  luith  3l\]piiocks,  an 
English  vagabond,  Just  in  view  of  the  Turret. 

Blnphocks*  So,  that  is  your  Pippa,  tlie  little  girl  who  passed 
us  singing  ?  Well,  your  Bishop's  Intendant's  money  shall  be 
honestly  earned  :  —  now,  don't  make  me  that  sour  face  because 
I  bring  tlie  Bishop's  name  into  the  business  ;  we  know  he  can 
have  nothing  to  do  with  such  horrors  :  we  know  that  he  is  a 
saint  and  all  that  a  bishop  should  be,  who  is  a  great  man  beside. 
Oh  were  hut  every  ivorm  a  maggot,  Every  fly  a  grig.  Every 
bough  a  Christmas  fagot,  Every  time  a  jig  !  In  fact,  I  have 
abjured  all  religions  ;  but  the  last  I  inclined  to  was  the  Ar- 
minian  :  for  I  have  travelled,  do  you  see,  and  at  Koenigsberg, 
Prussia  Improper  (so  styled  because  there  's  a  sort  of  bleak 
hungry  sun  there),  you  might  remark  over  a  venerable  house- 
porch,  a  certain  Chaldee  inscription  ;  and  brief  as  it  is,  a  mere 
glance  at  it  used  absolutely  to  change  the  mood  of  every  bearded 

*  "  He  maketh  his  sun  to  rise  on  the  evil  and  on  the  good,  and  sendeth 
rain  on  the  just  and  on  the  unjust." 


PIPPA   PASSES  351 

passenger.  In  they  turned,  one  and  all ;  the  young  and  light- 
some, with  no  irreverent  pause,  tlie  aged  and  decrepit,  with  a 
sensible  alacrity :  't  was  the  Grand  Rabbi's  abode,  in  short. 
Struck  with  curiosity,  I  lost  no  time  in  learning  Syriac  —  (these 
are  vowels,  you  dogs,  —  follow  my  stick's  end  in  the  mud  — 
Celarent^  Darli,  Ferlo !)  and  one  morning  presented  myself, 
spelling  book  in  hand,  a,  b,  c,  —  I  picked  it  out  letter  by  letter, 
and  wliat  was  the  purport  of  this  mirai'ulous  posy  ?  Some 
cherished  legend  of  the  past,  youll  say  —  "  Hoiv  Moses  liocus- 
pocussed  Egypt's  land  ivith  jiy  and  locust,''''  —  or,  '-''How  to 
Jonah  sounded  harsh Ish,  Get  thee  uj)  and  <jo  to  Tarshlsh,'"  — 
or,  ^''  How  the  angel  meeting  Balaam,  Straight  his  ass  returned 
a  salaa?n.'*  In  no  wise  !  "'  Shackahrack  —  Boach  —  somebody 
or  other  —  Isaach,  Re-cei-ver,  Pur-chaser  and  Ex-chan-ger  of 
—  Stolen  Goods  !  "  So,  talk  to  me  of  the  religion  of  a  bishop  ! 
I  have  renounced  all  bishops  save  Bishop  Beveridge !  —  mean 
to  live  so  —  and  die  —  As  some  Greek  dog-sage,  dead  and 
merry,  Hellivard  bound  in  Charon's  wherry.  With  food  for 
both  ivorlds,  under  and  upper,  Lupine-seed  and  Hecate's  supper, 
And  never  an  obolus  .  .  .  (Though  thanks  to  you,  or  this  In- 
tendant  through  you,  or  this  Bishop  througli  his  Intendant  —  I 
possess  a  burning  pocket-full  of  zwanzigers)  .  .  .  To  pay  the 
Stygian  Ferry  ! 

1st  Pol.  There  is  the  girl,  then  ;  go  and  deserve  them  the 
moment  you  have  pointed  out  to  us  Signor  Luigi  and  his  mother. 
[To  the  rest.~\  I  have  been  noticing  a  house  yonder,  this  long 
while  :  not  a  shutter  unclosed  since  morning  ! 

2d  Pol.  Old  Luca  Gaddi's,  that  owns  the  silk-mills  here  :  he 
dozes  by  the  hour,  wakes  up',  sighs  deeply,  says  he  should  like  to 
be  Prince  Metternich,  and  then  dozes  again,  after  having  bidden 
young  Sebald,  the  foreigner,  set  his  wife  to  playing  draughts. 
Never  molest  such  a  household,  they  mean  well. 

Blup.  Only,  cannot  you  tell  me  something  of  this  little  Pi})pa, 
I  must  have  to  do  with  ?  One  could  make  something  of  that 
name.  Pippa — that  is,  short  for  Felippa — i-hyming  to  Panurge 
consults  Hertrippa  — Believest  thou,  King  Agrippa  !  Some- 
thing might  be  done  with  that  name. 

2d  Pol.  Put  into  rhyme  that  your  head  and  a  ripe  musk- 
melon  would  not  be  dear  at  half  a  zwanziger  !  Leave  this  fool- 
ing, and  look  out :  the  afternoon  's  over  or  nearly  so. 

od  Pol.  Where  in  this  passport  of  Signor  Luigi  does  our 
Principal  instruct  you  to  watch  him  so  narrowly  ?  There  ? 
What 's  there  beside  a  simple  signature  ?  (That  English  fool 's 
busy  watching.) 

2d  Pol.  Flourish  all  round  —  "  Put  all  possible  obstacles  in 
his  way  ;  "  oblong  dot  at  the  end  —  "•  Detain  him    till   further 


352  PIPPA   PASSES 

advices  reach  you  ;  "  scratch  at  bottom  —  "  Send  him  back  on 
j^retence  of  some  informality  in  the  above  ; "  ink-spirt  on  right- 
hand  side,  (which  is  the  case  here)  —  ''  Arrest  him  at  once." 
Why  and  wherefore,  I  don't  concern  myself,  but  my  instructions 
amount  to  this  :  if  Signor  Luigi  leaves  home  to-night  for  Vienna 
—  well  and  good,  the  j^assport  deposed  with  us  for  our  visa  is 
really  for  his  own  use,  they  have  misinformed  the  Office,  and  he 
means  well ;  but  let  him  stay  over  to-night  —  there  has  been  the 
pretence  we  suspect,  the  accounts  of  his  corresponding  and  hold- 
ing intelligence  with  the  Carbonari  are  correct,  we  arrest  him  at 
once,  to-morrow  comes  Venice,  and  presently  Spielberg.  Blu- 
phocks  makes  the  signal,  sure  enough  !  That  is  he,  entering  the 
turret  with  his  mother,  no  doubt. 


III.   EVENING.     Liside  the  Turret  on  the  Hill  above  Asolo.     Luigi 
and  his  Mother  entering. 

Mother.  If  there  blew  wind,  you  'd  hear  a  long  sigh,  easing 
The  utmost  heaviness  of  music's  heart. 

Liiigi.  Here  in  the  archway  ? 

Mother.  Oh  no,  no  —  in  farther, 

Where  the  echo  is  made,  on  the  ridge. 

Luigi.  Here  surely,  then. 

How  plain  the  tap  of  my  heel  as  I  leaped  up  ! 
Hark  —  "  Lucius  Junius  !  "     The  very  ghost  of  a  voice 
Whose  body  is  caught  and  kept  by  .  .  .  what  are  those  ? 
Mere  withered  wallflowers,  waving  overhead  ? 
They  seem  an  elvish  group  with  thin  bleached  hair 
That  lean  out  of  their  topmost  fortress  —  look 
And  listen,  mountain  men,  to  what  we  say, 
Hand  under  chin  of  each  grave  earthy  face  : 
Up  and  show  faces  all  of  you  !  —  "  All  of  you  !  " 
That 's  the  king  dwarf  with  the  scarlet  comb ;  old  Franz, 
Come  down  and  meet  your  fate  ?     Hark  —  "  Meet  your  fate  !  " 

Mother.     Let  him  not  meet  it,  my  Luigi  —  do  not 
Go  to  his  City  I     Putting  crime  aside, 
Half  of  these  ills  of  Italy  are  feigned : 
Your  Pellicos  and  writers  for  effect, 
Write  for  effect. 

Luigi.  Hush  I     Say  A  writes,  and  B. 

Mother.  These  A's  and  B's  write  for  effect,  I  say. 
Then,  evil  is  in  its  nature  loud,  while  good 
Is  silent;  you  hear  each  petty  injury, 
None  of  his  virtues ;  he  is  old  beside, 
^uiet  and  kind,  and  densely  stujnd.     Why 
Do  A  and  B  not  kill  him  themselves  ? 


PIPPA   PASSES  353 

LidgL  They  teach 

Others  to  kill  him  —  me  —  and,  if  I  fail, 
Otliers  to  succeed ;  now,  if  A  tried  and  failed, 
I  could  not  teach  that :  mine  's  the  lesser  task. 
Mother,  they  visit  night  by  night  .  .  . 

Mother.  —  You,  Luigi  ? 

Ah,  will  you  let  me  tell  you  what  you  are  ? 

Luigi.     Why  not?     Oh,  the  one  thing  you  fear  to  hint, 
You  may  assure  yourself  I  say  and  say 
Ever  to  myself  !     At  times  —  nay,  even  as  now 
We  sit  —  I  think  my  mind  is  touched,  suspect 
All  is  not  sound  :  but  is  not  knowing  that. 
What  constitutes  one  sane  or  otherwise  ? 
I  know  I  am  thus  —  so,  all  is  right  again. 
I  laugh  at  myself  as  through  the  town  I  walk, 
And  see  men  merry  as  if  no  Italy 
Were  suffering ;  then  I  ponder  —  "I  am  rich. 
Young,  healthy ;  why  should  this  fact  trouble  me. 
More  than  it  troubles  these  ?  "     But  it  does  trouble. 
No,  trouble  's  a  bad  word :  for  as  I  walk 
There  's  springing  and  melody  and  giddiness. 
And  old  quaint  turns  and  passages  of  my  youth, 
Dreams  long  forgotten,  little  in  themselves. 
Return  to  me  —  whatever  may  amuse  me. 
And  earth  seems  in  a  truce  with  me,  and  heaven 
Accords  with  me,  all  things  suspend  their  strife. 
The  very  cicala  laughs  "  There  goes  he,  and  there! 
Feast  him,  the  time  is  short ;  he  is  on  his  way 
For  the  world's  sake  :  feast  him  this  once,  our  friend !  " 
And  in  return  for  all  this,  I  can  trip 
Cheerfully  up  the  scaffold-steps.     I  go 
This  evening,  mother  ! 

Mother.  But  mistrust  yourself  — 

Mistrust  the  judgment  you  pronounce  on  him  ! 

Luigi.  Oh,  there  I  feel  —  am  sure  that  I  am  right ! 

Mother.  Mistrust  your  judgment  then,  of  the  mere  means 
To  this  wild  enterprise  :  say,  you  are  right,  — 
How  should  one  in  your  state  e'er  bring  to  pass 
W^hat  would  require  a  cool  head,  a  cold  heart 
And  a  calm  hand  ?     You  never  will  escape. 

Luigi.  Escape  ?     To  even  wish  that,  would  spoil  all. 
The  dying  is  best  part  of  it.     Too  much 
Have  I  enjoyed  these  fifteen  years  of  mine, 
To  leave  myself  excuse  for  longer  life  : 
Was  not  life  pressed  down,  running  o'er  with  joy, 
That  I  might  finish  with  it  ere  my  fellows 


354  PIPPA    PASSES 

Who,  sparelier  feasted,  make  a  longer  stay  ? 

I  was  put  at  the  board-head,  helped  to  all 

At  first  ;  I  rise  up  happy  and  content. 

God  must  be  glad  one  loves  his  world  so  much. 

I  can  uive  news  of  earth  to  all  the  dead 

Who  ask  me  :  —  last  year's  sunsets,  and  great  stars 

That  had  a  right  to  come  first  and  see  ebb 

The  crimson  wave  that  drifts  the  sun  away  — 

Those  crescent  moons  with  notched  and  burning  rims 

That  strengthened  into  sharp  fire,  and  there  stood 

Impatient  of  the  azure  —  and  that  day 

In  March,  a  double  rainbow  stopped  the  storm  — 

May's  warm  slow  yellow  moonlit  summer  nights  — 

Gone  are  they,  but  I  have  them  in  my  soul ! 

Mother.   (He  will  not  go  I) 

Lulgi.  You  smile  at  me  ?     'T  is  true, 

Voluptuousness,  grotesqueness,  ghastliness, 
Environ  my  devotedness  as  quaintly 
As  round  about  some  antique  altar  wreathe 
The  rose  festoons,  goats'  horns,  and  oxen's  skulls. 

Mother.  See  now  :  you  reach  the  city,  you  must  cross 
His  threshold  —  how  ? 

Luigi.  Oh,  that 's  if  we  conspired  ! 

Then  would  come  pains  in  plenty,  as  you  guess  — 
But  guess  not  how  the  qualities  most  fit 
For  such  an  office,  qualities  I  have. 
Would  little  stead  me,  otherwise  employed, 
Yet  prove  of  rarest  merit  only  here. 
Every  one  knows  for  what  his  excellence 
Will  serve,  but  no  one  ever  Avill  consider 
For  what  his  worst  defect  might  serve  :  and  yet 
Have  you  not  seen  me  range  our  coppice  yonder 
In  search  of  a  distorted  ash  ?  —  I  find 
The  wry  s})oilt  branch  a  natural  perfect  bow. 
Fancy  the  thrice-sage,  thrlce-precautioned  man 
Arriving  at  the  palace  on  my  errand  1 
No,  no  I     I  have  a  handsome  dress  packed  up  — 
White  satin  here,  to  set  off  my  black  hair  ; 
In  I  shall  march  —  for  you  may  watch  your  life  out 
Behind  thick  walls,  make  friends  there  to  betray  you ; 
More  than  one  man  spoils  everything.     March  straight  — 
Only,  no  clumsy  knife  to  fumble  for, 
Take  the  great  gate,  and  walk  (not  saunter)  on 
Through  guards  and  guards  —     I  have  rehearsed  it  all 
Inside  the  turret  here  a  hundred  times. 
Don't  ask  the  way  of  whom  you  meet,  observe ! 


PIPPA   PASSES  355 

But  where  they  cluster  thickliest  is  the  door 

Of  doors  ;    they  '11  let  you  pass  —  they  '11  iiev^er  blab 

Each  to  the  other,  he  knows  not  the  favorite, 

Whence  he  is  bound  and  what 's  his  business  now. 

Walk  in  —  straight  up  to  him  ;  you  have  no  knife  : 

Be  proni})t,  how  should  he  scream  ?     Then,  out  with  you ! 

Italy,  Italy,  my  Italy ! 

You  're  free,  you  're  free  !     Oli  mother,  I  could  dream 

They  got  about  me  —  Andrea  from  his  exile. 

Pier  from  his  dungeon,  Gualtier  from  his  grave ! 

Mother.  AYell,  you  shall  go.     Yet  seems  this  patriotism 
The  easiest  virtue  for  a  selfish  man 
To  acquire:  he  loves  himself — and  next,  the  world  — 
If  he  must  love  beyond,  —  but  nought  between  : 
As  a  sliort-sighted  man  sees  nought  midway 
His  body  and  the  sun  above.     But  you 
Are  my  adored  Luigi,  ever  obedient 
To  my  least  wish,  and  running  o'er  with  love : 
I  could  not  call  you  cruel  or  unkind. 
Once  more,  your  ground  for  killing  him  !  —  then  go  ! 

Luigi.  Now  do  you  try  me,  or  make  sport  of  me  ? 
How  first  the  Austrians  got  these  provinces  .  .  . 
(If  that  is  all,  I  '11  satisfy  you  soon) 
—  Never  by  conquest  but  by  cunning,  for 
That  treaty  whereby  .  .  . 

Mother.  Well? 

Luigi.  (Sure,  he  's  arrived, 

The  tell-tale  cuckoo  :  spring  's  his  confidant, 
And  he  lets  out  her  April  purposes  I) 
Or  .  .  .  better  go  at  once  to  modern  time. 
He  has  .  .  .  they  have  ...  in  fact,  I  understand 
But  can't  restate  the  matter  ;  that 's  my  boast : 
Others  could  reason  it  out  to  you,  and  prove 
Things  they  have  made  me  feel. 

Mother.  Why  go  to-night  ? 

Morn  's  for  adventure.     Jupiter  is  now 
A  morning-star.     I  cannot  hear  you,  Luigi ! 

Luigi.  "  I  am  the  bright  and  morning-star,"  saith  God  — 
And,  ''  to  such  an  one  I  give  the  morning-star." 
The  gift  of  the  morning-star  !     Have  I  God's  gift 
Of  the  morning-star  ? 

Mother.  Chiara  will  love  to  see 

That  Jupiter  an  evening-star  next  June. 

Luigi.  True,  mother.    Well  for  those  who  live  through  June  I 
Great  noontides,  thunder-storms,  all  glaring  pomps 
That  triumph  at  the  heels  of  June  the  god 


356  PIPPA    PASSES 

Leading  his  revel  through  our  leafy  world. 
Yes,  Chiara  will  be  here. 

Mother.  In  June  :  remember, 

Yourself  appointed  that  month  for  her  commg. 

Ltdgi.  Was  that  low  noise  the  echo  ? 

Mother.  The  night-wind. 

She  must  be  grown  —  with  her  blue  eyes  upturned 
As  if  life  were  one  long  and  svFeet  surprise : 
In  June  she  comes. 

Luigi.  We  were  to  see  together 

The  Titian  at  Treviso.     There,  again  ! 

[From  without  is  heard  the  voice  of  Pippa,  singing  - 

A  kiiig  lived  long  ago, 
In  the  wior7iing  of  the  world, 
When  earth  was  nigher  heaven  tlian  now 
And  the  king's  locks  curled, 
Disparting  o'er  a  forehead  full 
As  the  milk-white  space  Hiuixt  horn  and  horn 
Of  some  sacrificial  hxdl  — 
Onhj  calm  as  a  bahe  neiv-horn : 
For  he  ivas  got  to  a  sleepy  mood, 
So  safe  from  all  decrepitude, 
Age  ivith  its  bane,  so  sure  gone  by, 
{The  gods  so  loved  him  tvhile  lie  dreamed) 
That,  having  lived  thus  long,  tliere  seeTned 
No  need  the  king  should  ever  die. 
Luigi.  No  need  that  sort  of  king  should  ever  die ! 
Among  the  rocks  his  city  luas : 
Before  his  palace,  in  the  sun. 
He  sat  to  see  his  jjeople  pass, 
And  judge  them  every  one 
From  its  threshold  of  smooth  stone. 
They  haled  him  many  a  valley-thief 
Caught  in  the  sheep-pens,  robber-chief 
Swarthy  and  shameless,  beggar-cheat, 
Spy-prowler,  or  rough  pirate  found 
On  the  sea-sand  left  aground  ; 
And  sometimes  clung  about  his  feet, 
JVith  bleeding  lip  and  burning  cheek, 
A  woman,  bitterest  wrong  to  speak 
Of  one  with  sidlen  thickset  brows: 
And  sometimes  from  the  j^rison-house 
The  angry  priests  a  pale  wretch  brought, 
On  knees  and  elbows,  belly  and  breast. 
Who  through  some  chink  had  pushed  and  pressed 


PIPPA    PASSES  357 

Worm-like  into  the  temple^  —  caught 

He  was  by  the  very  go(U 

Who  ever  in  the  darkness  strode 

Backward  and  foi'ivard,  keeping  watch 

O'er  his  brazen  bowls,  such  rogues  to  catch  ! 

These,  all  and  every  one, 

The  king  judged,  sitting  in  the  sun. 
Luigi.  That  king  sliould  still  judge  sitting  in  the  sun  ! 

His  councillors,  on  left  and  right. 

Looked  anxious  up,  —  but  no  surjyrise 

Disturbed  the  king's  old  smiling  eyes 

Where  the  very  blue  had  turned  to  ivhite. 

'T  is  said,  a  Python  scared  one  day 

The  breathless  city,  till  he  came, 

With  forky  tongue  and  eyes  on  flame, 

Where  the  old  king  sai  to  judge  alway  ; 

But  when  he  saw  the  sweepy  hair 

Girt  ivith  a  crown  of  berries  rare 

Which  the  god  will  hardly  give  to  icear 

To  the  maiden  who  singeth,  dancing  bare 

In  the  altar-smoke  by  the  pine-torch  lights, 

At  his  wondrous  forest  rites, — 

Seeing  this,  he  did  7iot  dare 

Approach  that  threshold  in  the  sun, 

Assaidt  the  old  king  smiling  there. 

Such  grace  had  kings  when  the  world  begun  ! 

\Vivv A  passes. 
Luigi.  And  such  grace  have  they,  now  that  the  world  ends  ! 
The  Python  at  the  city,  on  the  throne. 
And  brave  men,  God  would  crown  for  slaying  him, 
Lurk  in  by-corners  lest  they  fall  his  prey. 
Are  crowns  yet  to  be  won  in  this  late  time. 
Which  weakness  makes  me  hesitate  to  reach  ? 
'T  is  God's  voice  calls  :  how  could  I  stay  ?     Farewell ! 


Talk  by  the  loay,  while  Yippx  is  passing  from  the  Turret  to  the  Bishop's 
Brother* s  House,  close  to  the  Duomo  S.  Maria.  Poor  Girls  sitting 
on  the  steps. 

1st  Girl.  There  goes  a  swallow  to  Venice  —  the  stout  seafarer ! 
Seeing  those  birds  fly,  makes  one  wish  for  wings. 
Let  us  all  wish ;  you,  wish  first  I 

2d  Girl.  I?     This  sunset 

To  finish. 

Sd  Girl.  That  old  —  somebody  I  know, 
Grayer  and  older  than  my  grandfather, 


358  PIPPA   PASSES 

To  give  me  the  same  treat  he  gave  last  week  — 
Feeding  me  on  his  knee  with  fig-peckers, 
Lampreys  and  red  Breganze-wine,  and  mumbling 
The  while  some  folly  about  how  well  1  fare, 
Let  sit  and  eat  my  supper  quietly  : 
Since  had  he  not  himself  been  late  this  morning 
Detained  at  —  never  mind  where,  —  had  he  not  .  .  , 
''  Eh,  baggage,  had  I  not !  "  — 

2d  Girl.  How  she  can  lie  ! 

2>d  Girl.  Look  there  —  by  the  nails  ! 

2d  Girl.  What  makes  your  fingers  red  ? 

2>d  Girl.  Dipping  them  into  wine  to  write  bad  words  with 
On  the  bright  table  :  how  he  laughed  ! 

1st  Girl.  JNIy  turn. 

Spring  's  come  and  summer  's  coming,     I  would  wear 
A  long  loose  gown,  dov/n  to  the  feet  and  hands, 
With  plaits  here,  close  about  the  throat,  all  day  ; 
And  all  night  lie,  the  cool  long  nights,  in  bed ; 
And  have  new  milk  to  drink,  apples  to  eat, 
Deuzans  and  junetings,  leather-coats  .   .  .  ah,  I  should  say, 
This  is  away  in  the  fields  —  miles  ! 

?>d  Girl.  Say  at  once 

You  'd  be  at  home  :  she  'd  always  be  at  home  ! 
Now  comes  the  story  of  the  farm  among 
The  cherry  orchards,  and  how  April  snowed 
White  blossoms  on  her  as  she  ran.     Why,  fool, 
They  've  rubbed  the  chalk-mark  out,  how  tall  you  were, 
Twisted  your  starling's  neck,  broken  his  cage, 
Made  a  dung-hill  of  your  garden  ! 

Is^  Girl.  They  destroy 

My  garden  since  I  left  them  ?  well  —  perhaps 
I  would  have  done  so :  so  I  hope  they  have  ! 
A  fig-tree  curled  out  of  our  cottage  wall ; 
They  called  it  mine,  I  have  forgotten  why, 
It  must  have  been  there  long  ere  I  was  born  : 
Cric  —  crie  —  I  think  I  hear  the  wasps  o'erhead 
Pricking  the  papers  strung  to  flutter  there 
And  keep  off  birds  in  fruit-time  —  coarse  long  papers. 
And  the  wasps  eat  them,  prick  them  through  and  through. 

3rZ  Girl.  How  her  mouth  twitches  !     Where  was  I  ?  —  before 
She  broke  in  with  her  wishes  and  long  gowns 
And  wasps  —  would  I  be  such  a  fool  I  —  Oh,  here  ! 
This  is  my  way :  I  answer  every  one 
Who  asks  me  why  I  make  so  much  of  him  — 
(If   you    say,    "you    love    him"  —  straight    "he'll    not   be 
gulled  I  ") 


PIPPA   PASSES  359 

"  He  that  seduced  me  when  I  was  a  girl 

Thus  high  —  had  eyes  like  yours,  or  hair  like  yours, 

Brown,  red,  white,"  — as  the  case  may  be  :  that  pleases! 

See  how  that  beetle  burnishes  in  the  path  ! 

There  sparkles  he  along  the  dust :  and,  there  — 

Your  journey  to  that  maize-tuft  spoiled  at  least ! 

Isf  Girl.  When  I  was  young,  they  said  if  you  killed  one 
Of  those  sunshiny  beetles,  that  his  friend 
Up  there,  would  shine  no  more  that  day  nor  next. 

2d  Girl.  When  you  were  young  ?     Nor  are  you  young,  that 's 
true. 
How  your  plump  arms,  that  were,  have  dropped  away ! 
AVhy,  I  can  si)an  them.     Ceeco  beats  you  still  ? 
No  matter,  so  you  keep  your  curious  hair. 
I  Avisli  they  'd  find  a  way  to  dye  our  hair 
Your  color  —  any  lighter  tint,  indeed, 
Than  black :  the  men  say  they  are  sick  of  black, 
Black  eyes,  black  hair  ! 

4th  Girl.  Sick  of  yours,  like  enough. 

Do  you  pretend  you  ever  tasted  lampreys 
And  ortolans  ?     Giovita,  of  the  palace, 
Engaged  (but  there  's  no  trusting  him)  to  slice  me 
Polenta  with  a  knife  that  had  cut  up 
An  ortolan. 

2d  Girl.  Why,  there  !     Is  not  that  Pippa 
We  are  to  talk  to,  under  the  window,  —  quick  !  — 
Where  the  lights  are  ? 

1st  Girl.  That  she  ?     No,  or  she  would  sing, 

For  the  Intendant  said  .  .  . 

3fZ  Girl.  Oh,  you  sing  first! 

Then,  if  she  listens  and  comes  close  ...  I  '11  tell  you,  — 
Sing  that  song  the  young  English  noble  made. 
Who  took  you  for  the  purest  of  the  pure, 
And  meant  to  leave  the  world  for  you  —  what  fun ! 

2d  Girl,  [^sings.'] 

You  'II  love  me  yet  !  —  and  1  can  tarry 

Your  love's  protracted  growing  : 
June  reared  that  hunch  of  flowers  you  carry  ^ 

From  seeds  of  AjyriVs  sowing. 

I  plant  a  heartftdl  now :  some  seed 

At  least  is  su7'e  to  stink e^ 
And  yield  —  ivhat  you  ^11  not  pluck  indeed, 

Not  love,  hut,  may  he,  like. 


360  PIPPA  PASSES 

You  'II  look  at  least  on  love's  remains, 

A  grave 's  one  violet : 
Your  look  ?  —  that  pays  a  thousand  pains. 

What 's  death  ?     You  '11  love  me  yet ! 

3c?  Girl,  [to  PiPPA  who  approaches.']  Oh  you  may  come 
closer  —  we  shall  not  eat  you  !  Why,  you  seem  the  very  person 
that  the  great  rich  handsome  Englishman  has  fallen  so  violently 
in  love  with.     I  '11  tell  you  all  about  it. 


IV.    NIGHT.     Inside  the  Palace  hy  the  Duomo.     Monsignor,  dis- 
missing his  Attendants. 

Mon.  Thanks,  friends,  many  thaiilvs  !  I  chiefly  desire  life 
now,  that  I  may  recompense  every  one  of  you.  Most  I  know 
something  of  already.  What,  a  repast  prepared  ?  Benedicto 
henedlcatur  .  .  .  ugh,  ugh !  Where  was  I  ?  Oh,  as  you  were 
remarking,  Ugo,  the  weather  is  mild,  very  unlike  winter- 
weather  :  but  I  am  a  Sicilian,  you  know,  and  shiver  in  your 
Julys  here.  To  be  sure,  when  't  was  full  summer  at  Messina,  as 
we  priests  used  to  cross  in  procession  the  great  square  on  As- 
sumption Day,  you  might  see  our  thickest  yellow  tapers  twist 
suddenly  in  two,  each  like  a  falling  star,  or  sink  down  on  them- 
selves in  a  gore  of  wax.  But  go,  my  friends,  but  go  !  [  7o  the 
Intendant.]  Not  you,  Ugo  I  [  T7ie  others  leave  the  apartment.] 
I  have  long  wanted  to  converse  with  you,  Ugo. 

Inten.  Uguccio  — 

Mon.  .  .  .  'guccio  Stefani,  man !  of  Ascoli,  Fermo  and  Fos- 
sombruno  ;  —  what  I  do  need  instructing  about,  are  these  ac- 
counts of  your  administration  of  my  poor  brother's  affairs. 
Ugh !  I  shall  never  get  through  a  third  part  of  your  accounts : 
take  some  of  these  dainties  before  we  attempt  it,  however.  Are 
you  bashful  to  that  degree  ?    For  me,  a  crust  and  water  suffice. 

Inten.  Do  you  choose  this  especial  niglit  to  question  me  ? 

Mon.  This  night,  Ugo.  You  have  managed  my  late  brother's 
affairs  since  the  death  of  our  elder  brother :  fourteen  years  and 
a  month,  all  but  three  days.  On  the  Third  of  December,J[  find 
him  .  .  . 

Inten.  If  you  have  so  intimate  an  acquaintance  with  your 
brother's  affairs,  you  will  be  tender  of  turning  so  far  back  :  they 
will  hardly  bear  looking  into,  so  far  back. 

Mon.  Ay,  ay,  ugh,  ugh,  —  nothing  but  disappointments  here 
below  !  I  remark  a  considerable  payment  made  to  yourself  on 
this  Tliird  of  December.  Talk  of  disappointments  !  There  was 
a  young  fellow  here,  Jules,  a  foreign  sculptor  I  did  my  utmost 
to  advance,  that  the  Chur(;h  might  be  a  gainer  by  us  both  :  he  was 


PIPPA    PASSES  361 

going  on  hopefully  enough,  and  of  a  sudden  he  notifies  to  me 
some  marvellous  change  that  has  happened  in  his  notions  of 
Art.  Here  "s  his  letter,  —  "  He  never  had  a  clearly  conceived 
Ideal  witliin  his  brain  till  to-day.  Yet  since  his  hand  could 
manage  a  cliisel,  he  has  ])ractised  expressing  other  men's  Ideals  ; 
and,  in  the  very  ])erfection  he  has  attained  to,  he  foresees  an 
ultimate  failure  :  his  unconscious  hand  will  jjursue  its  prescribed 
course  of  old  years,  and  will  reproduce  with  a  fatal  expertness 
the  ancient  types,  let  the  novel  one  a])pear  never  so  ]  alpably  to 
his  si)irit.  There  is  but  one  method  of  escape  :  confiding  the 
virgin  type  to  as  chaste  a  hand,  he  will  turn  painter  instead  of 
sculptor,  and  paint,  not  carve,  its  characteristics,"  —  strike  out, 
I  dare  say,  a  school  like  Correggio  :  how  think  you,  Ugo  ? 

Inten.  Is  Correggio  a  painter  ? 

Mon.  Foolish  Jules !  and  yet,  after  all,  why  foolish  ?  He 
may  —  probably  will,  fail  egregiously  ;  but  if  there  should  arise 
a  new  painter,  will  it  not  be  in  some  such  way,  by  a  i)oet  now, 
or  a  musician,  (spirits  who  have  conceived  and  perfected  an 
Ideal  through  some  other  channel)  transferring  it  to  this,  and 
escaping  our  conventional  roads  by  pure  ignorance  of  them  ;  eh, 
Ugo  ?     If  you  have  no  appetite,  talk  at  least,  Ugo  ! 

Inten.  Sir,  I  can  submit  no  longer  to  this  course  of  yours. 
First,  you  select  the  group  of  which  I  formed  one,  —  next  you 
thin  it  gradually,  —  always  retaining  me  with  your  smile,  —  and 
so  do  you  proceed  till  you  have  fairly  got  me  alone  with  you 
between  four  stone  walls.  And  now  then  ?  Let  this  farce,  this 
chatter  end  now  :  what  is  it  you  want  with  me  ? 

Mon.  Ugo  I 

Inten.  From  the  instant  you  arrived,  I  felt  your  smile  on  me 
as  you  questioned  me  about  this  and  the  other  article  in  those 
papers  —  why  your  brother  should  have  given  me  this  villa,  that 
podere,  —  and  your  nod  at  the  end  meant.  —  Avhat  ? 

Mon.  Possibly  that  I  wished  for  no  loud  talk  here.  If  once 
you  set  me  coughing,  Ugo  !  — 

Inten.  I  have  your  brother's  hand  and  seal  to  all  I  possess : 
now  ask  me  what  for  I   what  service  I  did  him  —  ask  me  ! 

Mon.  I  would  better  not :  I  should  rip  up  old  disgraces,  let 
out  my  poor  brother's  weaknesses.  By  the  way,  INIaffeo  of 
Forli,  (which,  I  forgot  to  observe,  is  j^our  true  name,)  was  the 
interdict  ever  taken  off  you  for  robbing  that  church  at  Cesena  ? 

Inten.  No,  nor  needs  be  :  for  when  I  murdered  your  brother's 
friend,  Pasquale,  for  him   .   .   . 

Mon.  Ah,  he  employed  you  in  that  business,  did  he  ?  Well, 
I  must  let  you  keep,  as  you  say,  this  villa  and  that  poclere,  for 
fear  the  world  should  find  out  my  relations  were  of  so  indifferent 
a  stamp.      Maffeo,  my  family  is    the   oldest   in    jNIessina,  and 


362  PIPPA    PASSES 

century  after  century  have  my  progenitors  gone  on  polluting 
themselves  with  every  wickedness  under  heaven  :  my  own  father 
.  .  .  rest  his  soul  I  —  I  have,  I  know,  a  chapel  to  support  that  it 
may  rest :  my  dear  two  dead  brothers  were,  —  what  you  know 
tolerably  well ;  I,  the  youngest,  might  have  rivalled  them  in 
vice,  if  not  in  wealth  :  but  from  my  boyhood  I  came  out  from 
among  them,  and  so  am  not  partaker  of  their  plagues.  My  glory 
springs  from  another  source  ;  or  if  from  tliis,  by  contrast  only, 
—  for  I,  the  bishop,  am  the  brother  of  your  employers,  Ugo.  I 
hope  to  repair  some  of  their  wa-ong,  however  ;  so  far  as  my 
brothers'  ill-gotten  treasure  reverts  to  me,  I  can  stop  the  con- 
sequences of  his  crime  :  and  not  one  soldo  shall  escajje  me. 
Maffeo,  the  sword  we  quiet  men  spurn  away,  you  shrewd  knaves 
pick  up  and  commit  murders  with ;  what  op])ortunities  the 
virtuous  forego,  the  villanous  seize.  Because,  to  pleasure  my- 
self apart  from  other  considerations,  my  food  would  be  millet- 
cake,  my  dress  sackcloth,  and  my  couch  straw,  —  am  I  therefore 
to  let  you,  the  off -scouring  of  the  earth,  seduce  the  poor  and 
ignorant  by  appropriating  a  pomp  these  will  be  sure  to  think 
lessens  the  abominations  so  unaccountably  and  exclusively  as- 
sociated with  it  ?  Must  I  let  villas  and  ^90(/eri  go  to  you.  a 
murderer  and  thief,  that  you  may  beget  by  means  of  them  other 
murderers  and  thieves  ?  No  —  if  my  cough  would  but  allow 
me  to  speak  ! 

Inten.  What  am  I  to  expect  ?     You  are  going  to  punish  me  ? 

Mon.  —  Must  punish  you,  Maffeo.  I  cannot  afford  to  cast 
away  a  chance.  I  have  whole  centuries  of  sin  to  redeem,  and 
only  a  month  or  two  of  hfe  to  do  it  in.  How  should  I  dare  to 
say  .  .  . 

Inten.  "  Forgive  us  our  trespasses  "  ? 

Mon.  My  friend,  it  is  because  I  avow  myself  a  very  worm, 
sinful  beyond  measure,  that  I  reject  a  line  of  conduct  you  would 
applaud  perhaps.  Shall  I  proceed,  as  it  were,  a-pardoning  ?  — 
I  ?  —  who  have  no  symptom  of  reason  to  assume  that  aught  less 
than  my  strenuousest  efforts  will  keep  myself  out  of  mortal  sin, 
much  less  keep  others  out.  No  :  I  do  trespass,  but  will  not 
double  that  by  allowing  you  to  trespass. 

Inten.  And  suppose  the  villas  are  not  your  brother's  to  give, 
nor  yours  to  take  ?     Oh,  you  are  hasty  enough  just  now  I 

Mon.  1,  2  —  N°  31  — ay,  can  you  read  the  substance  of  a 
letter,  N°  3,  I  have  received  from  Rome  ?  It  is  precisely  on 
the  ground  there  mentioned,  of  the  suspicion  I  have  that  a  cer- 
tain child  of  my  late  elder  brother,  who  would  have  succeeded 
to  his  estates,  was  murdered  in  infancy  by  you,  Maffeo,  at  the  in- 
stigation of  my  late  younger  brother  —  that  the  Pontiff  enjoins 
on  me  not  merely  the  bringing  that  Maffeo  to  condign  punish- 


PIPPA   PASSES  363 

ment,  but  the  taking  all  pains,  as  guardian  of  the  infant's  heri- 
tage for  the  Church,  to  recover  it  parcel  by  i)arcel,  howsoever, 
whensoever  and  wheresoever.  While  you  are  now  gnawing 
those  fingers,  the  police  are  engaged  in  sealing  up  your  papers, 
Maifeo,  and  the  mere  raising  my  voice  brings  my  people  from 
the  next  room  to  dispose  of  yourself.  But  I  want  you  to  con- 
fess quietly,  and  save  me  raising  my  voice.  Why,  man,  do  I 
not  know  the  old  story  ?  The  heir  between  the  succeeding  heir, 
and  this  heir's  ruffianly  instrument,  and  their  complot's  eifect, 
and  the  life  of  fear  and  bribes  and  ominous  smilino-  silence  ? 
Did  you  throttle  or  stab  my  brother's  infant  ?     Come  now ! 

Inten.  So  old  a  story,  and  tell  it  no  better  ?  When  did  such 
an  instrument  ever  produce  such  an  effect  ?  Either  the  child 
smiles  in  his  face ;  or,  most  likely,  he  is  not  fool  enough  to  put 
himself  in  the  employer's  power  so  thoroughly :  the  child  is  al- 
ways ready  to  produce  —  as  you  say  —  howsoever,  wheresoever 
and  whensoever. 

Mon.  Liar ! 

Inten.  Strike  me  ?  Ah,  so  might  a  father  chastise  !  I  shall 
sleep  soundly  to-night  at  least,  though  the  gallows  await  me  to- 
morrow ;  for  what  a  life  did  I  lead  !  Carlo  of  Cesena  reminds 
me  of  his  connivance,  every  time  I  pay  his  annuity ;  which  hap- 
pens commonly  thrice  a  year.  If  1  remonstrate,  he  will  confess 
all  to  the  good  bishop  —  you  ! 

Mon.  I  see  through  the  trick,  caitiff  I  I  would  you  spoke 
truth  for  once.    All  shall  be  sifted,  however — seven  times  sifted. 

Inten.  And  how  my  absurd  riches  encumbered  me  I  I  dared 
not  lay  claim  to  above  half  my  possessions.  Let  me  but  once 
unbosom  myself,  glorify  Heaven,  and  die ! 

Sir,  you  are  no  brutal  dastardly  idiot  like  your  brother  I 
frightened  to  death  :  let  us  understand  one  another.  Sir,  I  will 
make  away  with  her  for  you  — the  girl  —  here  close  at  hand  ; 
not  the  stupid  obvious  kind  of  killing;  do  not  speak — know 
nothing  of  her  nor  of  me  !  I  see  her  every  day  —  saw  her  this 
morning :  of  course  there  is  to  be  no  killing ;  but  at  Rome  the 
courtesans  perish  off  every  three  years,  and  I  can  entice  her 
thither  —  have  indeed  begun  operations  already.  There  's  a 
certain  lusty  blue-eyed  florid-complexioned  English  knave,  I  and 
the  Police  employ  occasionally.  You  assent,  I  perceive — no, 
that 's  not  it  —  assent  I  do  not  say  —  but  you  will  let  me  con- 
vert my  present  havings  and  holdings  into  cash,  and  give  me 
time  to  cross  the  Alps  ?  'T  is  but  a  little  black-eyed  pretty 
singing  Felippa,  gay  silk-winding  girl.  I  have  kept  her  out  of 
harm's  way  up  to  this  present ;  for  I  always  intended  to  make 
your  life  a  plague  to  you  with  her.  'T  is  as  well  settled  once 
and  forever.      Some  women  I  have    procured   will    pass  Blu- 


364  PIPPA   PASSES 

phocks,  my  handsome  scoundrel,  off  for  somebody ;  and  once 
Pippa  entangled  !  —  you  conceive  ?  Through  her  singmg  ?  Is 
it  a  bargain  ? 

J^From  ivithout  is  heard  the  voice  of  Pippa,  smging  — 
Overhead  the  tree-tops  iiieet^ 
Flowers  and  grass  spring  'neath  one's  feet ; 
There  was  nought  above  Tne,  nought  heloiv, 
My  childhood  had  not  learned  to  knoiv  : 
For,  what  are  the  voices  of  birds 
—  Ay,  and  of  beasts,  —  but  woi'ds,  our  ivords, 
Only  so  much  more  sweet  ? 
The  knowledge  of  that  icith  viy  life  begun. 
But  I  had  so  near  made  out  the  sun, 
And  counted  your  stars,  the  seven  and  one, 
Like  the  fingers  of  my  hand: 
Nay,  I  could  all  but  understand 
Wherefore  through  heaven  the  white  moon  ranges  y 
And  fust  when  out  of  her  soft  fifty  changes 
No  unfamiliar  face  might  overlook  me  — 
Suddenly  God  took  me. 

[Pippa  passes. 

Mon.  [springing  up.~\  My  people  —  one  and  all  —  all  — 
within  there  !  Gag  this  villain  —  tie  him  hand  and  foot !  He 
dares  .  .  I  know  not  half  he  dares  —  but  remove  him  —  quick  ! 
Miserere  mei,  Doniine!     Quick,  I  say! 

Pippa' s  Chamber  again.      She  enters  it. 

The  bee  with  his  comb, 

The  mouse  at  her  dray. 

The  grub  in  its  tomb, 

AVhile  winter  away  ; 

But  the  fire-fly  and  hedge-shrew  and  lob-worm,  I  pray, 

How  fare  they  ? 

Ha,  ha,  thanks  for  your  counsel,  my  Zanze ! 
''  Feast  upon  lampreys,  quaff  the  Breganze  "  — 

The  summer  of  life  so  easy  to  spend, 

And  care  for  to-morrow  so  soon  })ut  away  ! 

But  vvinter  hastens  at  summer's  end. 

And  fire-fly,  hedge-shrew,  lob-worm,  pray, 

How  fare  they  ? 

No  bidding  me  then  to  .   .   .  what  did  Zanze  say  ? 
"  Pare  your  nails  pearlwise,  get  your  small  feet  shoes 

More  like  "...  (wliat  said  she  ?)  —  "  and  less  li]ce  canoes  I  " 

How  pert  that  girl  was  I  —  would  I  be  those  pert 


PIPPA    PASSES  365 

Impudent  staring  women  !     It  had  done  me, 

However,  surely  no  such  mighty  hurt 

To  learn  his  name  who  passed  that  jest  upon  me : 

No  foreigner,  that  I  can  recollect, 

Came,  as  she  says,  a  month  since,  to  inspect 

Our  silk-mills  —  none  with  blue  eyes  and  thick  rings 

Of  raw-silk-colored  hair,  at  all  events. 

Well,  if  old  Luca  keep  liis  good  intents. 

We  shall  do  better,  see  what  next  year  brings ! 

I  may  buy  shoes,  my  Zanze,  not  appear 

More  destitute  than  you  perhaps  next  year  ! 

Bluph  .  .  .  something !     I  had  caught  the  uncouth  name 

But  for  Monsignor's  people's  sudden  clatter 

Above  us  —  bound  to  spoil  such  idle  chatter 

As  ours  :  it  were  indeed  a  serious  matter 

If  silly  talk  like  ours  should  put  to  shame 

The  jiious  man,  the  man  devoid  of  blame, 

The  ...  ah  but  —  ah  but,  all  the  same, 

No  mere  mortal  has  a  right 

O 

To  carry  that  exalted  air  ; 

Best  people  are  not  angels  quite : 

While  —  not  the  worst  of  people's  doings  scare 

The  devil ;   so  there  's  that  proud  look  to  spare  ! 

Which  is  mere  counsel  to  myself,  mind  1  for 
I  have  just  been  the  holy  Monsignor : 
And  I  was  you  too,  Luigi's  gentle  mother. 
And  you  too,  Luigi  I  —  how  that  Luigi  started 
Out  of  the  turret  —  doubtlessly  departed 
On  some  good  errand  or  another. 
For  he  jDassed  just  now  in  a  traveller's  trim, 
And  the  sullen  company  that  prowled 
About  his  path,  I  noticed,  scowled 
As  if  they  had  lost  a  prey  in  him. 
And  I  was  Jules  the  sculptor's  bride, 
And  I  was  Ottima  beside. 
And  now  what  am  I  ?  —  tired  of  fooling. 
Day  for  folly,  night  for  schooling  ! 
New  year's  day  is  over  and  spent, 
lU  or  well,  I  must  be  content. 

Even  my  lily  's  asleep,  I  vow  : 
Wake  up  —  here  's  a  friend  I  've  plucked  yoo. 
Call  this  flower  a  heart's-ease  now ! 
Something  rare,  let  me  instruct  you, 
Is  this,  with  petals  triply  swollen. 
Three  times  sjK)tted,  thrice  the  pollen ; 
While  the  leaves  and  parts  that  witness 


866  PIPPA   PASSES 

Old  proportions  and  their  fitness, 
Here  remain  unchanged,  unmoved  now  ; 
Call  this  pampered  thing  improved  now  I 
Suppose  there  's  a  king  of  the  flowers 
And  a  girl-show  held  in  his  bowers  — 
*'  Look  ye,  buds,  this  growth  of  ours," 
Says  he,  "  Zanze  from  the  Brenta, 
I  have  made  her  gorge  polenta 
Till  both  cheeks  are  near  as  bouncino- 
As  her  .  .  .  name  there  's  no  pronouncing! 
See  this  heightened  color  too, 
For  she  swilled  Breganze  wine 
Till  her  nose  turned  deep  carmine  ^ 
'T  was  but  white  when  wild  she  grew. 
And  only  by  this  Zanze's  eyes 
Of  which  we  could  not  change  the  size, 
The  magnitude  of  all  achieved 
Otherwise,  may  be  perceived.'* 

Oh  what  a  drear  dark  close  to  my  poor  day  ! 

How  could  that  red  sun  drop  in  that  black  cloud  ? 

Ah  Pipjia,  morning's  rule  is  moved  away, 

Dispensed  with,  never  more  to  be  allowed  ! 

Day's  turn  is  over,  now  arrives  the  night's. 

Oh  lark,  be  day's  apostle 

To  mavis,  merle  and  throstle, 

Bid  them  their  betters  jostle 

From  day  and  its  delights  ! 

But  at  night,  brother  owlet,  over  the  woods. 

Toll  the  world  to  thy  chantry  ; 

Sing  to  the  bats'  sleek  sisterlioods 

Full  complines  with  gallantry  : 

Then,  owls  and  bats. 

Cowls  and  twats, 

Monks  and  nuns,  in  a  cloister's  moods, 

Adjourn  to  the  oak-stump  pantry ! 

lAfter  she  has  begun  to  undress  herself. 
Now,  one  thing  I  should  like  to  really  know : 
How  near  I  ever  might  approach  all  these 
I  only  fancied  being,  this  long  day : 
—  Approach,  I  mean,  so  as  to  touch  them,  so 
As  to  .  .  .  in  some  way  .  .  .  move  them  —  if  you  please, 
Do  good  or  evil  to  them  some  slight  way. 
For  instance,  if  I  wind 
Sillt  to-morrow,  my  silk  may  bind 

[^Sitting  on  the  bedside. 


PIPPA   PASSES  367 

And  border  Ottima's  cloak's  hem. 

Ah  me,  and  my  important  part  with  them, 

This  morning's  hymn  half  promised  when  I  rose  ! 

True  in  some  sense  or  other,  I  suppose. 

[^46-  she  lies  down. 

God  bless  me  !     I  can  pray  no  more  to-night. 
No  doubt,  some  way  or  other,  hymns  say  right. 

All  service  ranks  the  same  ivith  God  — 
With  God,  whose  jyupj^^^s,  best  and  worst, 
Are  we  ;  there  is  no  last  nor  first. 

\_She  sleeps. 


KING  VICTOR  AND  KING  CHARLES 

A  TRAGEDY 

So  far  as  I  know,  this  tragedy  is  the  first  artistic  consequence  of  what 
Voltaire  termed  ' '  a  terrible  event  without  consequences  ; ' '  and  although 
it  professes  to  be  historical,  I  have  taken  more  pains  to  arrive  at  the  history 
than  most  readers  would  thank  me  for  particularizing :  since  acqiuxinted, 
as  I  will  hope  them  to  be,  with  the  chief  circumstances  of  Victor's  remark- 
able European  career  —  nor  quite  ignorant  of  the  sad  and  surprising  facts 
I  am  about  to  reproduce  (a  tolerable  account  of  which  is  to  be  found,  for 
instance,  in  Abb^  Roman's  Recit,  or  even  the  fifth  of  Lord  Orrery's  Letters 
from  Italy )  —  I  cannot  expect  them  to  be  versed,  nor  desirous  of  becoming 
so,  in  all  the  detail  of  the  memoirs,  correspondence,  and  relations  of  the 
time.  From  these  only  may  be  obtained  a  knowledge  of  the  fiery  and 
audacious  temper,  unscrupulous  selfishness,  profound  dissimulation,  and 
singular  fertility  in  resources,  of  Victor  —  the  extreme  and  painful  sensi- 
bility, prolonged  immaturity  of  powei's,  earnest  good  purpose  and  vacillat- 
ing will  of  Charles —  the  noble  and  right  woman's  manliness  of  his  wife  — 
and  tlie  ill-considered  rascality  and  subsequent  better-ad\'ised  rectitude  of 
D'Ormea.  Wlien  I  say,  therefore,  that  I  cannot  but  believe  my  statement 
(combining  as  it  does  what  appears  correct  in  Voltaire  and  plausible  in  Con- 
dorcet)  more  true  to  person  and  thing  than  any  it  has  hitherto  been  my 
fortune  to  meet  with,  no  doubt  my  word  will  be  taken,  and  my  evidence 
spared  as  readily.  R.  B. 

LoxDON,  1842. 

PERSONS. 

Victor  Amadeus,  First  King  of  Sardinia. 
Charles  Emmanuel,  his  Son,  Prince  of  Piedmont. 
POLYXENA,   Wife  of  Charles. 
D'Ormea,  Minister. 

Scene. — The  Council  Chamber  of  Bivoli  Palace,  near  Turin,  communicating 
with  a  Hall  at  the  hack,  an  Apartment  to  the  left  and  another  to  the  right  of 
the  stage. 

Time,  1730-1. 


FIRST  YEAR,   1730.  —  KING  VICTOR. 

Part  I. 

Charles,  Polyxena. 

Cha.  You  think  so  ?     Well,  I  do  not. 

Pol.  My  beloved, 

All  must  clear  up  ;  we  shall  be  happy  yet : 
This  cannot  last  forever  —  oh,  may  change 
To-day  or  any  day  ! 


370  KING  VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES 

Cha.  —  May  change  ?     Ah  yes  — 

May  change  ! 

Pol.  Endure  it,  then. 

Cha.  No  doubt,  a  life 

Like  this  drags  on,  now  better  and  now  worse. 
My  father  may  .   .  .  may  take  to  loving  me  ; 
And  he  may  take  D'Ormea  closer  yet 
To  counsel  him  ;  —  may  even  cast  off  her 
—  That  bad  Sebastian  ;  but  he  also  may 
...  Or  no,  Polyxena,  my  only  friend. 
He  may  not  force  you  from  me. 

Pol.  Now,  force  me 

From  you !  —  me,  close  by  you  as  if  there  gloomed 
No  Seijastians,  no  D'Ormeas  on  our  path  — 
At  Rivoli  or  Turin,  still  at  hand, 
Arch-counsellor,  prime  confidant  .  .  .  force  me ! 

Cha.  Because  I  felt  as  sure,  as  I  feel  sure 
We  clasp  hands  now,  of  being  happy  once. 
Young  was  I,  quite  neglected,  nor  concerned 
By  the  world's  business  that  engrossed  so  much 
My  father  and  my  brother :  if  I  peered 
From  out  my  privacy,  —  amid  the  crash 
And  blaze  of  nations,  domineered  those  two. 
'T  was  war,  peace  —  France  our  foe,  now  —  England,  friend 
In  love  with  Spain  —  at  feud  with  Austria  !     Well  — 
I  wondered,  laughed  a  moment's  laugh  for  pride 
In  the  chivalrous  couple,  then  let  drop 
My  curtain  —  "I  am  out  of  it,"  I  said  — 
When  .  .  . 

Pol.  You  have  told  me,  Charles  ! 

Cha.  Polyxena  — 

When  suddenly,  —  a  warm  March  day,  just  that ! 
Just  so  much  sunshine  as  the  cottage  child 
Basks  in  delighted,  while  the  cottager 
Takes  off  his  bonnet,  as  he  ceases  work, 
To  catch  the  more  of  it  —  and  it  must  fall 
Heavily  on  my  brother  !     Had  you  seen 
Philip  —  the  lion-featured  !  not  like  me  ! 

Pol.   I  know  — 

Cha.  And  Philip's  mouth  yet  fast  to  mine, 

His  dead  cheek  on  my  cheek,  his  arm  still  round 
My  neck,  —  they  bade  me  rise,  "■  for  I  was  heir 
To  the  Duke,"  they  said,  "  the  right  hand  of  the  Duke  :  " 
Till  then  he  was  my  father,  not  the  Duke  ! 
So  .  .  .  let  me  finish  .   .  .  the  whole  intricate 
World's-business  their  dead  boy  was  born  to,  I 


KING  VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES  371 

Must  conquer,  —  ay,  the  brilliant  thing  he  was, 
I,  of  a  sudden  must  be :  my  faults,  my  follies, 

—  All  bitter  truths  were  told  me,  all  at  once, 
To  end  the  sooner.      What  1  simply  styled 
Their  overlookino-  me,  had  been  contempt : 
How  should  the  Duke  employ  himself,  forsooth. 
With  such  an  one,  while  lordly  Philip  rode 

By  him  their  Turin  through  ?     But  he  was  punished, 

And  must  put  up  with  —  me  !      'T  was  sad  enough 

To  learn  my  future  portion  and  submit. 

And  then  the  wear  and  worry,  blame  on  blame  ! 

For,  spring-sounds  in  my  ears,  spring-smells  about, 

How  could  I  but  grow  dizzy  in  their  pent 

Dim  palace-rooms  at  first  ?     My  mother's  look 

As  they  discussed  my  insignificance, 

She  and  my  father,  and  I  sitting  by,  — 

I  bore  ;  I  knew  how  brave  a  son  they  missed  ; 

Philip  had  gayly  run  state-papers  through. 

While  Charles  was  spelling  at  them  painfully  ! 

But  Victor  was  my  father  spite  of  that. 

"  Duke  Victor's  entire  life  has  been,''  I  said, 

"  Innumerable  efforts  to  one  end ; 

And  on  the  point  now  of  that  end's  success, 

Our  Ducal  turning  to  a  Kingly  crown, 

Where  's  time  to  be  reminded  't  is  his  child 

"  He  spurns  ?  "     And  so  I  suffered  —  scarcely  suffered, 

Since  I  had  you  at  length  ! 

Pol.  To  serve  in  place 

Of  monarch,  minister  and  mistress,  Charles ! 

Cha.    But,  once  that  crown  obtained,  then  was  't  not  like 
Our  lot  would  alter  ?     "  When  he  rests,  takes  breath. 
Glances  around,  and  sees  who  's  left  to  love  — 
Now  that  my  mother  's  dead,  sees  I  am  left  — 
Is  it  not  like  he  '11  love  me  at  the  last?  " 
Well,  Savoy  turns  Sardinia ;  the  Duke  's  King  • 
Could  I  —  precisely  then  —  could  you  expect 
His  harshness  to  redouble  ?     These  few  months 
Have  been  .   .   .  have  been  .  .   .  Polyxena,  do  you 
And  God  conduct  me,  or  I  lose  myself  ! 
What  would  he  have  ?     What  is  't  they  want  with  me  ? 
Him  with  this  mistress  and  this  minister, 

—  You  see  me  and  you  hear  him  ;  judge  us  both  ! 
Pronounce  what  I  should  do,  Polyxena  I 

Pol.  Endure,  endure,  beloved  !     Say  you  not 
He  is  your  father  ?      All 's  so  incident 
To  novel  sway  !     Beside,  our  life  must  change  : 


KING   VICTOR   AND  KIXG   CHARLES 

Or  you  '11  acquire  his  kingcraft,  or  he  '11  find 

Harsliness  a  sorry  way  of  teaching  it. 

I  bear  this  —  not  that  there  "s  so  much  to  bear. 

Cha.  You  bear  ?     Do  not  I  know  that  you,  though  bound 
To  silence  for  my  sake,  are  perishing 
Piecemeal  beside  me  ?     And  how  otherwise 
When  every  creephole  from  the  hideous  Court 
Is  stopped  ;  the  Minister  to  dog  me,  here  — 
The  Mistress  posted  to  entrap  you,  there  ? 
And  thus  shall  we  grow  old  in  such  a  life  ; 
Not  careless,  never  estranged,  —  but  old  :  to  alter 
Our  life,  there  is  so  much  to  alter ! 

Pol.  Come  — 

Is  it  agreed  that  we  forego  complaint 
Even  at  Turin,  yet  complain  we  here 
At  Rivoli  ?     'T  were  wiser  you  announced 
Our  i^resence  to  the  King.     What 's  now  afoot 
I  wonder  ?  —  Not  that  any  more  's  to  dread 
Than  every  day's  embarrassment :  but  guess 
For  me,  why  train  so  fast  succeeded  train 
On  the  high-road,  each  gayer  still  than  each ! 
•I  noticed  your  Archbishop's  pursuivant. 
The  sable  cloak  and  silver  cross ;  such  pomp 
Bodes  .  .   .  what  now,  Charles  ?     Can  you  conceive  ? 

Cha.  Not  I. 

Pol.  A  matter  of  some  moment  — 

Cha.  There  's  our  life  ! 

Which  of  the  group  of  loiterers  that  stare 
From  the  lime-avenue,  divines  that  I  — 
About  to  figure  presently,  he  thinks. 
In  face  of  all  assembled  —  am  the  one 
Who  knows  precisely  least  about  it  ? 

Fol.  Tush ! 

D'Ormea's  contrivance ! 

Cha.  Ay,  liow  otherwise 

Should  the  young  Prince  serve  for  the  old  King's  foil  ? 

—  So  that  the  simplest  courtier  may  remark 
'Twere  idle  raising  ])arties  for  a  Prince 
Content  to  linger  DOrmea's  laughing-stock. 
Something,  't  is  like,  about  that  weary  business 

\Po'mt'mg  to  papers  he  has  laid  doum,  and  which  Polyxena  examines. 

—  Not  that  I  comprehend  three  words,  of  course. 
After  all  last  night's  study. 

Pol.  The  faint  lieart  I 

Why,  as  we  rode  and  you  rehearsed  just  now 
Its  substance  .  .  .   (that 's  the  folded  speecli  I  mean, 


KING  VICTOR  AND  KING   CHARLES  373- 

Concerning-  the  Reduction  of  tlie  Fiefs) 

—  What  woukl  you  have  ?  —  I  fancied  while  you  spoke, 
Some  tones  were  just  your  father's. 

Cha.  Flattery ! 

Pol.  I  fancied  so  :  —  and  here  lurks,  sure  enough, 
My  note  upon  the  vSpanish  Claims  I     You  "ve  mastered 
The  lief-speech  tlioroughly  :  this  other,  mind. 
Is  an  opinion  you  deliver,  —  stay, 
Best  read  it  slowly  over  once  to  me  ; 
Read  —  there  's  bare  time  ;  you  read  it  firmly  —  loud 

—  Rather  loud,  looking  in  his  face,  —  don't  sink 

Your  eye  once  —  ay,  thus  I      "  If  Spain  claims  "...  begin 

—  Just  as  you  look  at  me  I 

Cha.  At  you  !     Oh  truly, 

You  have  I  seen,  say,  marshalling  your  troops, 
Dismissing  councils,  or,  through  doors  ajar, 
Head  sunk  on  hand,  devoured  by  slow  chagrins 

—  Then  radiant,  for  a  crown  had  all  at  once 
Seemed  possible  again  !      I  can  behold 
Him.  whose  least  whisper  ties  my  spirit  fast. 

In  this  sweet  brow,  nought  could  divert  me  from 
Save  objects  like  Sebastian's  shameless  lip. 
Or  worse,  the  clipped  gray  hair  and  dead  white  face 
And  dwindling  eye  as  if  it  ached  with  guile, 
D'Ormea  wears  .  .  . 

[.4^  he  kisses  her,  enter  from,  the  King's  ajoarfmeni  D'Ormea. 

I  said  he  would  divert 
My  kisses  from  your  brow  I 

Z>'0.   [^5/f/e.]  Here:     So,  KinG^  Victor 

vSpoke  truth  for  once  :   and  who  's  ordained,  but  I 
To  make  that  memorable  ?     Both  in  call. 
As  he  declared  I     Were  't  better  gnash  the  teeth. 
Or  laugh  outright  now  ? 

Cha.   [to  Pol.]  What's  his  visit  for? 

DO.  [Aside.']   I  question  if  they  even  speak  to  me. 

Pol.  [to  Cha.]  Face  the  man  I     He  '11  suppose  you  fear  him, 
else. 
[Aloud.']  The  INfariuis  bears  the  King's  command,  no  doubt? 

DO.   [Aside.]  Precisely  !  — If  I  threatened  him,  perhaps  ? 
Well,  this  at  least  is  punishment  enouoh  I 
Men  used  to  promise  punishment  would  come. 

Cha.  Deliver  the  King's  message.  Marquis  — 

D'O.  [Aside.]  '  Ah  — 

So  anxious  for  his  fate  ?     [Aloud.]  A  word,  my  Prince, 
Before  you  see  your  father  —  just  one  word 
Of  counsel ! 


'B74  KING  VICTOR  AND  KING   CHARLES 

Clia.  Oh,  your  counsel  certainly  ! 

Polyxena,  the  Marquis  counsels  us  ! 
Well,  sir  ?     Be  brief,  however  I 

UO.  What?     You  know 

As  much  as  I  ?  —  preceded  me,  most  like, 
In  knowledge  I      So  !      ('T  is  in  his  eye,  beside  — 
His  voice :  he  knows  it,  and  his  heart 's  on  flame 
Already!)     You  surmise  why  you,  myself, 
Del  Borgo,  Spava,  fifty  nobles  more. 
Are  summoned  thus  ? 

Clia.  Is  the  Prince  used  to  know, 

At  any  time,  the  pleasure  of  the  King, 
Before  his  minister  ?  —  Polyxena, 
Stay  here  till  I  conclude  my  task  :  I  feel 
Your  presence  (smile  not)  through  the  walls,  and  take 
Fresh  heart.     The  King  's  within  that  chamber. 

D'O.    \Passing  the  table  whereon  a  paper  lies,  exclaims,  as  he  glances 
at  it,  "Spain!" 

Pol.   \_Aside  to  Cha.]  Tarry  awhile  :   what  ails  the  minister  ? 

D'O.  Madam,  I  do  not  often  trouble  you. 
The  Prince  loathes,  and  you  loathe  me  —  let  that  pass  ! 
But  since  it  touches  him  and  you,  not  me, 
Bid  the  Prince  listen  ! 

Pol.   [to  Cha.]  Surely  you  will  listen  : 

—  Deceit  ?  —  Those  fingers  crumpling  up  his  vest  ? 
Cha.  Deceitful  to  the  very  fingers'  ends  ! 

DO.   [ivho  has  approached  them,  overlooks  the  other  paper  Charles 
continues  to  hold. 
My  project  for  the  Fiefs  !     As  I  supposed  I 
Sir,  I  must  give  you  light  upon  those  measures 

—  For  this  is  mine,  and  that  I  spied  of  Spain, 
Mine  too  ! 

Cha.  Release  me  !     Do  you  gloze  on  me 

Who  bear  in  the  world's  face  (that  is,  the  world 
You  make  for  me  at  Turin)  your  contempt  ? 

—  Your  measure  ?  —  When  was  not  any  hateful  task 
D'Ormea's  imposition  ?     Leave  my  robe  ! 

What  post  can  I  bestow,  wliat  grant  concede  ? 
Or  do  you  take  me  for  the  King  ? 

DO.  Not  I! 

Not  yet  for  King,  —  not  for,  as  yet,  thank  God, 
One  who  in   .   .  .  shall  I  say  a  year,  a  month  ? 
Ay  !  —  shall  be  wretcheder  than  e'er  was  slave 
In  his  Sardinia,  —  Europe's  S]iectacle 

And  tlie  world's  by-word  !     What  ?     The  Prince  aggrieved 
That  I  excluded  him  our  counsels  ?     Here 

[Touching  the  paper  in  Charles's  hand. 


KING  VICTOR  AND  KING   CHARLES  375 

Accept  a  method  of  extorting  gold 

From  Savoy's  nobles,  who  must  wring  its  worth 

In  silver  first  from  tillers  of  the  soil, 

Whose  hinds  again  have  to  contribute  brass 

To  make  up  the  amount :  there  's  counsel,  sir, 

My  counsel,  one  year  old  ;  and  the  fruit,  this  — 

Savoy  's  become  a  mass  of  misery 

And  wrath,  which  one  man  has  to  meet  —  the  King  : 

You  're  not  the  King  !      Another  counsel,  sir  ! 

Spain  entertains  a  project  (here  it  lies) 

Which,  guessed,  makes  Austria  offer  that  same  King 

Thus  much  to  baffle  Spain  ;  he  promises  ; 

Then  comes  Spain,  breathless  lest  she  be  forestalled, 

Her  offer  follows  ;  and  he  promises  .  .  . 

Cha.  —  Promises,  sir,  when  he  before  agreed 
To  Austria's  offer  ? 

D'O.  That 's  a  counsel,  Prince  ! 

But  past  our  foresight,  Spain  and  Austria  (choosing 
To  make  their  quarrel  up  between  themselves 
Without  the  intervention  of  a  friend) 
Produce  both  treaties,  and  both  promises  .  .  . 

Cha.  How? 

D'O.  Prince,  a  counsel !  —  And  the  fruit  of  that' 

Both  parties  covenant  afresh,  to  fall 
Together  on  their  friend,  blot  out  his  name, 
Abolish  him  from  Europe.     So,  take  note. 
Here  's  Austria  and  here  's  Spain  to  fight  against, 
And  what  sustains  the  King  but  Savoy  here, 
A  miserable  people  mad  with  wrongs  ? 
You  're  not  the  King  ! 

Cha.  Polyxena,  you  said 

All  would  clear  up  :  all  does  clear  up  to  me  ! 

DO.  Clear  up?     'Tis  no  such  thing  to  envy,  then? 
You  see  the  King's  state  in  its  length  and  breadth  ? 
You  blame  me  now  for  keeping  you  aloof 
From  counsels  and  the  fruit  of  counsels  ?  —  Wait 
Till  I  explain  this  morning's  business ! 

Cha.  [Aside.^  No  — 

Stoop  to  my  father,  yes,  —  D'Ormea.  no  ; 
—  The  King's  son,  not  to  the  King's  counsellor  ! 
I  will  do  something,  but  at  least  retain 
The  credit  of  my  deed  !      [Aloud.']     Then  it  is  this 
You  now  expressly  come  to  tell  me  ? 

D'O.  This 

To  tell !     You  apprehend  me  ? 

Cha.  Perfectly. 


376  KING  VICTOR  AND  KING   CHARLES 

Further,  D'Ormea,  you  have  shown  yourself, 
For  the  first  time  these  many  weeks  and  months, 
Disposed  to  do  my  bidding  ? 

D'O.  From  the  heart ! 

Gha.  Acquaint  my  father,  first,  I  wait  his  pleasure  : 
Next  ...  or,  I  '11  tell  you  at  a  fitter  time. 
Acquaint  the  King  ! 

D'O.  \_Aside.']  If  I  'scape  Victor  yet! 

First,  to  prevent  this  stroke  at  me  :  if  not,  — 
Then,  to  avenge  it !      \_To  Cha.]  Gracious  sir,  I  go.        [^Goes. 

Cha.  God,  I  forbore  !     Which  more  offends,  that  man 
Or  that  man's  master  ?     Is  it  come  to  this  ? 
Have  they  supposed  (the  sharpest  insult  yet) 
I  needed  e'en  his  intervention  ?     No  ! 
No  —  dull  am  I,  conceded,  —  but  so  duU, 
Scarcely  !     Their  step  decides  me. 

Pol.  How  decides  ? 

Cha.  You  would  be  freed  D'Ormea's  eye  and  hers  ? 

—  Could  fly  the  court  with  me  and  live  content  ? 
So,  this  it  is  for  which  the  knights  assemble ! 
The  whispers  and  the  closeting  of  late, 

The  savageness  and  insolence  of  old, 

—  For  this ! 

Pol.  What  mean  you  ? 

Cha.  How  ?     You  fail  to  catch 

Their  clever  plot  ?     I  missed  it,  but  could  you  ? 
These  last  two  months  of  care  to  inculcate 
How  dull  I  am,  —  D'Ormea's  present  visit 
To  prove  that,  being  dull,  I  might  be  worse 
Were  I  a  King  —  as  wretched  as  now  dull  — 
You  recognize  in  it  no  winding  up 
Of  a  long  plot  ? 

Pol.  Why  should  there  be  a  plot  ? 

Cha.  The  crown  's  secure  now  ;  I  should  shame  the  crown  : 
An  old  complaint ;  the  point  is,  how  to  gain 
IVIy  place  for  one,  more  fit  in  Victor's  eyes. 
His  mistress  the  Sebastian's  child. 

Pol.  In  truth  ? 

CJta.  They  dare  not  quite  dethrone  Sardinia's  Prince  : 
But  they  may  descant  on  my  dulness  till 
They  sting  me  into  even  praying  tliem 
Grant  leave  to  hide  my  head,  resign  my  state, 
And  end  the  coil.     Not  see  now  ?     In  a  Avord, 
They  'd  have  me  tender  them  myself  my  rights 
As  one  inca})able ;  —  some  cause  for  that. 
Since  I  delayed  thus  long  to  see  their  drift  I 


KING  VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES  377 

I  shall  apprise  the  King  he  may  resume 
My  rights  this  moment. 

Fol.  Pause  !    I  dare  not  think 

So  ill  of  Victor. 

Cha.  Think  no  ill  of  him  ! 

Fol.  —  Nor  think  him,  then,  so  shallow  as  to  suffer 
His  purpose  be  divined  thus  easily. 
And  yet  —  you  are  the  last  of  a  great  line  ; 
There  's  a  great  heritage  at  stake  ;  new  days 
Seemed  to  await  this  newest  of  the  realms 
Of  Europe  :  —  Charles,  you  must  withstand  this  ! 

Cha.  Ah  — 

You  dare  not  then  renounce  the  splendid  court 
For  one  whom  all  the  world  despises  ?     Speak  ! 

Pol.  My  gentle  husband,  speak  I  will,  and  truth. 
Were  this  as  you  believe,  and  I  once  sure 
Your  duty  lay  in  so  renouncing  rule, 
I  could  .  .  .  could  ?     Oh  what  happiness  it  were  — 
To  live,  my  Charles,  and  die,  alone  with  you  ! 

Cha.  I  grieve  I  asked  you.     To  the  presence,  then  ! 
By  this,  D'Ormea  acquaints  the  King,  no  doubt, 
He  fears  I  am  too  simple  for  mere  hints, 
And  that  no  less  will  serve  than  Victor's  mouth 
Demonstrating  in  council  what  I  am. 
I  have  not  breathed,  I  think,  these  many  years  ! 

Pol.  Why,  it  may  be  !  —  if  he  desire  to  wed 
That  woman,  call  legitimate  her  child. 

Cha.  You  see  as  much  ?     Oh,  let  his  will  have  way  ! 
You  '11  not  repent  confiding  in  me,  love  ? 
There  's  many  a  brighter  spot  in  Piedmont,  far. 
Than  Rivoli.     I  '11  seek  him  :  or,  suppose 
You  hear  first  how  I  mean  to  speak  my  mind  ? 
—  Loudly  and  firmly  both,  this  time,  be  sure  ! 
I  yet  may  see  your  Rhine-land,  who  can  tell  ? 
Once  away,  ever  then  away  !     I  breathe. 

Pol.  And  I  too  breathe. 

Cha.  Come,  my  Polyxena  ! 


378  KING  VICTOR  AND  KING   CHARLES 

KING  VICTOR. 

Part  II. 

Enter  King  Victor,  hearing  the  regalia  on  a  cushion^  from  his  apart- 
ment.    He  calls  loudly  — 

D'Ormea  !  —  for  patience  fails  me,  treading  thus 
Among  the  obscure  trains  I  have  laid,  —  my  knights 
Safe  in  the  hall  here  —  in  that  anteroom  ; 
My  son,  —  D'Ormea,  where  ?     Of  this,  one  touch  — 

\_Laying  down  the  crown. 
This  fireball  to  these  mute  black  cold  trains  —  then 
Outbreak  enough  ! 

\_Contemplating  it.~\     To  lose  all,  after  all ! 
This,  glancing  o'er  my  house  for  ages  —  shaped, 
Brave  meteor,  like  the  crown  of  Cyprus  now, 
Jerusalem,  Spain,  England,  every  change 
The  braver, — and  when  I  have  clutched  a  jmze 
My  ancestry  died  wan  with  watching  for, 
To  lose  it  I  — by  a  slip,  a  fault,  a  trick 
Learnt  to  advantage  once  and  not  unlearned 
When  past  the  use,  —  "  just  this  once  more  "  (I  thought) 
"  Use  it  with  Spain  and  Austria  happily, 
And  then  away  with  trick  !  "     An  oversight 
I  'd  have  re})aired  thrice  over,  any  time 
These  fifty  years,  must  hapj^en  now  I     There  's  peace 
At  length  ;  and  I,  to  make  the  most  of  peace. 
Ventured  my  project  on  our  people  here, 
As  needing  not  their  help  :   which  Europe  knows, 
And  means,  cold-blooded,  to  dispose  herself 
(Apart  from  plausibilities  of  war) 
To  crush  the  new-made  King  —  who  ne'er  till  now 
Feared  her.     As  Duke,  I  lost  each  foot  of  earth 
And  laughed  at  her :  my  name  was  left,  my  sword 
Left,  all  was  left  I      But  she  can  take,  she  knows, 
This  crown,  herself  conceded  .  .  . 

That 's  to  try, 
Kind  Europe !     My  career  's  not  closed  as  yet ! 
This  boy  was  ever  subject  to  my  will, 
Timid  and  tame —  the  fitter  I      D'Ormea,  too  — 
What  if  the  sovereion  also  rid  himself 
Of  thee,  his  prime  of  parasites  ?  —  I  delay  ! 
D'Ormea!  \_As  D'Ormea  enters,  the  King  seats  himself. 

My  son,  the  Prince  —  attends  he  ? 


KING  VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES  379 

no.  Sir, 

He  does  attend.     The  crown  prepared  !  —  it  seems 
That  you  persist  in  your  resolve. 

Vic.  Who  's  come  ? 

The  chancellor  and  the  chamberlain  ?     My  knights  ? 

U  0.  The  whole  Annunziata.  —  If,  my  liege, 
Your  fortune  had  not  tottered  worse  than  now   .  .  . 

Vic.  Del  Borgo  has  drawn  up  the  schedules  ?  mine  — 
My  son's,  too  ?     Excellent  I     Only,  beware 
Of  the  least  blunder,  or  we  look  but  fools. 
First,  you  read  the  Annulment  of  the  Oaths ; 
Del  Borgo  follows  ...  no,  the  Prince  shall  sign ; 
Then  let  Del  Borgo  read  the  Instrument : 
On  which,  I  enter. 

D'  0.  Sir,  this  may  be  truth  ; 

You,  sir,  may  do  as  you  affect  —  may  break 
Your  engine,  me,  to  pieces :  try  at  least 
If  not  a  spring  remain  worth  saving  !     Take 
My  counsel  as  I  've  counselled  many  times  ! 
What  if  the  Spaniard  and  the  Austrian  threat  ? 
There  's  England,  Holland,  Venice  —  which  ally 
Select  you  ? 

Vic.  Aha  I     Come,  D'Ormea,  —  "  truth  " 

Was  on  your  lip  a  minute  since.     Allies  ? 
I  've  broken  faith  with  Venice,  Holland,  England 
—  As  who  knows  if  not  you  ? 

D'  0.  But  why  with  me 

Break  faith  —  with  one  ally,  your  best,  break  faith  ? 

Vic.  When  first  I  stumbled  on  you.  Marquis  —  't  was 
At  Mondovi  —  a  little  lawyer's  clerk  .   .   . 

D'  0.  Therefore  your  soul's  ally  I  —  who  brought  you  through 
Your  quarrel  with  the  Pope,  at  pains  enough  — 
AVho  simply  echoed  you  in  these  affairs  — 
On  whom  you  cannot  therefore  visit  these 
Affairs'  ill  fortune  —  whom  you  trust  to  guide 
You  safe  (yes,  on  my  soul)  through  these  affairs  ! 

Vic.  I  was  about  to  notice,  had  you  not 
Prevented  me,  that  since  that  great  town  kept 
AVith  its  chicane  D'Ormea's  satchel  stuffed 
And  D'Ormea's  self  sufficiently  recluse, 
He  missed  a  sight,  —  my  naval  armament 
When  I  burned  Toulon.     How  the  skiff  exults 
Upon  the  galliot's  wave  I  —  rises  its  height, 
O'ertops  it  even ;  but  the  great  wave  bursts, 
And  hell-deep  in  the  horrible  profound 
Buries  itself  the  galliot:  shall  the  skiff 
Think  to  escape  the  sea's  black  trough  in  turn  ? 


380  KING  VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES 

Apply  this  :  you  have  been  my  minister 

—  Next  me,  above  me  possibly  ;  —  sad  post, 
Huge  care,  abundant  hick  of  peace  of  mind ; 
Who  would  desiderate  the  eminence  ? 

You  gave  your  soul  to  get  it ;  you  'd  yet  give 
Your  soul  to  keep  it,  as  I  mean  you  shall, 
D'Ormea  I      What  if  the  wave  ebbed  with  me  ? 
Whereas  it  cants  you  to  another  crest ; 
I  toss  you  to  my  son  ;  ride  out  your  ride  ! 

D'  0.  Ah,  you  so  much  despise  me  ? 

Vic.  You,  D'Ormea  ? 

Nowise  :  and  I  '11  inform  you  why.     A  king 
Must  in  his  time  have  many  ministers. 
And  I  've  been  rash  enough  to  part  with  mine 
When  I  thought  proper.     Of  the  tribe,  not  one 
(  ...  Or  wait,  did  Pianezze  ?  .  .  .  ah,  just  the  same  !) 
Not  one  of  them,  ere  his  remonstrance  reached 
The  length  of  yours,  but  has  assured  me  (commonly 
Standing  much  as  you  stand,  —  or  nearer,  say, 
The  door  to  make  his  exit  on  his  speech) 

—  I  should  rejDent  of  what  I  did.     D'Ormea, 
Be  candid,  you  approached  it  when  I  bade  you 
Prepare  the  schedules  !     But  you  stopped  in  time, 
You  have  not  so  assured  me  :  how  should  I 
Despise  you  then  ? 

Enter  Charles. 

Vic.  \_clianrjlng  his  tone.~\     Are  you  instructed  ?     Do 
My  order,  point  by  point !     About  it,  sir  ! 

D'  0.  You  so  despise  me  !     \_Aside.'\  One  last  stay  remains  — 
The  boy's  discretion  there. 

\_To  Charles.]   For  your  sake.  Prince, 
I  pleaded,  wholly  in  your  interest. 
To  save  you  from  this  fate  ! 

Cha.   [Aside.']  Must  I  be  told 

The  Prince  was  supplicated  for  —  by  him  ? 

Vic.  [to  U  0.]  Apprise  Del  Borgo,  Spava  and  the  rest. 
Our  son  attends  them;  then  return. 

U  0.  One  word  ! 

Cha.   [Aside.']   A  moment's  pause  and  they  would  drive  me 
hence, 
1  do  believe  ! 

Z>'  0.   [Aside.]  Let  but  the  boy  be  firm  ! 

Vic.  You  disobey  ? 

Cha.   [to  DO.]  You  do  not  disobey 

Me,  at  least  ?     Did  you  promise  that  or  no  ? 

D'O.  Sir,  I  am  yours:  what  would  you  ?     Yours  am  I ! 


KING  VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES  381 

Cha.  When  I  have  said  what  I  shall  say,  't  is  like 
Your  face  will  ne'er  again  disgust  me.     Go  ! 
Through  you,  as  tlirough  a  breast  of  glass,  I  see. 
And  for  your  conduct,  from  my  youtli  till  now, 
Take  my  contempt  I     You  miglit  have  spared  me  much. 
Secured  me  somewhat,  nor  so  harmed  yourself  : 
That 's  over  now.     Go,  ne'er  to  come  again  ! 

D'O.  As  son,  the  father  — father,  as  the  son! 
My  wits  I     My  wits  !  \_Goes. 

Vic.  \_Seated.'\    And  you,  what  meant  you,  pray. 
Speaking  thus  to  D'Ormea  ? 

Cha.  Let  us  not 

Weary  ourselves  with  D'Ormea !     Those  few  words 
Have  half  unsettled  what  I  came  to  say. 
His  presence  vexes  to  my  very  soul. 

Vic.  One  called  to  manage  a  kingdom,  Charles,  needs  heart 
To  bear  up  under  worse  annoyances 
Than  seems  D'Ormea  —  to  me,  at  least. 

Cha.  \_Aside.']  Ah,  good  ! 

He  keeps  me  to  the  point !     Then  be  it  so. 

[^AloucL^  Last  night,  sir,  brought  me  certain  papers  —  these  — 
To  be  reported  on,  —  your  way  of  late. 
Is  it  last  night's  result  that  you  demand  ? 

Vic.  For  God's  sake,  what  has  night  brought  forth  ?  Pronounce 
The  .  .  .  what 's  your  word  ?  —  result ! 

Cha.  Sir,  that  had  proved 

Quite  worthy  of  your  sneer,  no  doubt :  —  a  few 
Lame  thoughts,  regard  for  you  alone  could  wring, 
Lame  as  they  are,  from  brains  like  mine,  believe ! 
As  't  is,  sir,  I  am  spared  both  toil  and  sneer. 
These  are  the  papers. 

Vic.  WeU,  sir  ?  I  suppose 

Y''ou  hardly  burned  them.     Now  for  your  result ! 

Cha.  I  never  should  have  done  great  things  of  coarse, 
But  ...  oh  my  father,  had  you  loved  me  more ! 

Vic.  Loved  ?     \_Aside.l^  Has   D'Ormea    played   me  false,  I 
wonder  ? 
\_Aloud.~\  Why,  Charles,  a  king's  love  is  diffused  —  yourself 
^lay  overlook,  perchance,  your  part  in  it. 
Our  monarchy  is  absolutest  now 
In  Europe,  or  my  trouble  's  thrown  away. 
I  love,  my  mode,  that  subjects  each  and  all 
May  have  the  power  of  loving,  all  and  each. 
Their  mode  :  I  doubt  not,  many  have'  their  sons 
To  trifle  with,  talk  soft  to,  all  day  long : 
I  have  that  crown,  this  chair,  D'Ormea,  Charles  ! 


382  KING  VICTOR  AND  KING   CHARLES 

Cha.  'T  is  well  I  am  a  subject  then,  not  you. 

Vic,  \_Aside.l^  D'Ormea  has  told  him  everything. 

\_Aloud.'\     Aha, 
I  apprehend  you  :  when  all 's  said,  you  take 
Your  private  station  to  be  prized  beyond 
My  own,  for  instance  ? 

Cha.  —  Do  and  ever  did 

So  take  it :  't  is  the  method  you  pursue 
That  grieves  .  .  . 

Vic.  These  words  !     Let  me  express,  mj   friend, 

Your  thoughts.     You  penetrate  what  I  supposed 
Secret.     D'Ormea  plies  his  trade  betimes  ! 
I  purpose  to  resign  my  crown  to  you. 

Cha.  To  me  ? 

Vic.  Now  in  that  chamber. 

Cha.  You  resigL 

The  crown  to  me  ? 

Vic.  And  time  enough,  Charles,  sure  ? 

Confess  with  me,  at  four-and-sixty  years 
A  crown  's  a  load.     I  covet  quiet  once 
Before  I  die,  and  sununoned  you  for  that. 

Cha.  'T  is  I  will  speak  :  you  ever  hated  me, 
I  bore  it,  —  have  insulted  me,  borne  too  — 
Now  you  insult  yourself  ;  and  I  remember 
What  I  believed  you,  what  you  really  are, 
And  cannot  bear  it.     What !     My  life  has  passed 
Under  your  eye,  tormented  as  you  know,  — 
Your  whole  sagacities,  one  after  one, 
At  leisure  brought  to  play  on  me  —  to  prove  me 
A  fool.     I  thought  and  I  submitted  ;  now 
You  'd  prove  .  .  .  what  would  you  prove  me  ? 

Vic.  This  tii  me  ? 

I  hardly  know  you ! 

Cha.  Know  me  ?     Oh  indeed 

You  do  not !     Wait  tiU  I  complain  next  time 
Of  my  simplicity  !  —  for  here  's  a  sage 
Knows  the  world  well,  is  not  to  be  deceived, 
And  liis  experience  and  his  Macchiavels, 
D'Ormeas,  teach  him  —  what  ?  —  that  I  this  while 
Have  envied  him  his  crown  I      He  has  not  smiled, 
I  warrant,  —  has  not  eaten,  drunk  nor  slept, 
For  I  was  plotting  with  my  Princess  yonder  ! 
Who  knows  what  we  might  do  or  might  not  do  ? 
Go  now,  be  politic,  astound  the  world  ! 
That  sentry  in  the  antechamber  —  nay, 
The  varlet  who  disposed  this  precious  trap 

[Pointing  to  the  crown. 


KING  VICTOR  AND  KING   CHARLES  383 

That  was  to  take  me  —  ask  them  if  they  think 
Their  own  sons  envy  them  their  posts  I  —  Know  me  ! 

Vic.  But  you  know  me,  it  seems ;  so,  learn,  in  brief, 
My  pleasure.     This  assembly  is  convened  .  .  . 

Cha.  Tell  me,  that  woman  put  it  in  your  head  ! 
You  were  not  sole  contriver  of  the  scheme, 
My  father  ! 

Vic.  Now  observe  me,  sir  !     I  jest 

Seldom  —  on  these  i)oints,  never.     Here,  I  say, 
The  knights  assemble  to  see  me  concede. 
And  you  accept,  Sardinia's  crown. 

Cha.  Farewell ! 

'T  were  vain  to  hope  to  change  this  :   I  can  end  it. 
Not  that  I  cease  from  being  yours,  when  sunk 
Into  obscurity :   I  '11  die  for  you. 
But  not  annoy  you  with  my  presence.     Sir, 
Farewell!   Farewell!  [^?2^er  D'Ormea. 

D'O.   \_Aside.~\  Ha,  sure  he's  changed  again  — 
Means  not  to  fall  into  the  cunning  trap  ! 
Then  Victor,  I  shall  yet  escape  you,  Victor  ! 

Vic.     [suddenly  placing  the  crown  upon  the  head  q/"  Charles. 
D'Ormea,  your  King  I 

[To  Charles.]  My  son,  obey  me  !     Charles, 

Your  father,  clearer-sighted  than  yourself, 
Decides  it  must  be  so.     'Faith,  this  looks  real ! 
My  reasons  after  ;  reason  upon  reason 
After  :  but  now,  obey  me  !     Trust  in  me  ! 
By  this,  you  save  Sardinia,  you  save  me  ! 
Why,  the  boy  swoons  !      \_To  D'C]  Come  this  side  ! 

D'O.    [as  Charles  turns  from  him  to  Victor.]  You  persist? 

Vic.  Yes,  I  conceive  the  gesture's  meaning.     'Faith, 
He  almost  seems  to  hate  you  :  how  is  that  ? 
Be  reassured,  my  Charles  !     Is  't  over  now  ? 
Then,  Marquis,  tell  the  new  King  what  remains 
To  do  !     A  moment's  work.     Del  Borgo  reads 
The  Act  of  Abdication  out,  you  sign  it. 
Then  I  sign  ;  after  that,  come  back  to  me. 

D'  0.  Sir,  for  the  last  time,  pause  ! 

Vic.  Five  minutes  longer 

I  am  your  sovereign.  Marquis.     Hesitate  — 
And  I  '11  so  turn  those  minutes  to  account 
That  .  .  .  Ay,  you  recollect  me  !      \_Aside.~\  Could  I  bring 
My  foolish  mind  to  undergo  the  reading 
That  Act  of  Abdication  ! 

\_As  Charles  motions  D'Ormea  to  precede  him. 

Thanks,  dear  Charles  I 

[Charles  and  D'Ormea  retire. 


384  KING  VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES 

Vic.  A  novel  feature  in  the  boy,  —  indeed 
Just  what  I  feared  he  wanted  most.     Quite  right, 
This  earnest  tone  :  your  truth,  now  for  effect ! 
It  answers  every  purpose  :  with  that  look, 
That  voice,  —  I  liear  him  :  "  I  began  no  treaty," 
(Me  speaks  to  Spain,)  "  nor  ever  dreamed  of  this 
You  show  me  ;  this  I  from  my  soul  regret ; 
But  if  my  father  signed  it,  bid  not  me 
Dishonor  him  —  who  gave  me  all,  beside  :  '* 
And,  "  true,"  says  Spain,  "  'twere  harsh  to  visit  that 
Upon  the  Prince."     Then  come  the  nobles  trooping : 
I  grieve  at  these  exactions  —  I  had  cut 
Tliis  hand  off  ere  impose  them  ;  but  shall  I 
Undo  my  father's  deed  ?  "  —  and  they  confer  : 
Doubtless  he  was  no  party,  after  all ; 
Give  the  Prince  time  !  " 

Ay,  give  us  time,  but  time  ! 
Only,  he  must  not,  when  the  dark  day  comes, 
Refer  our  friends  to  me  and  frustrate  all. 
We  '11  have  no  child's  play,  no  desponding  fits, 
No  Charles  at  each  cross  turn  entreating  Victor 
To  take  his  crown  again.     Guard  against  that ! 

Enter  D'Ormea. 
Long  live  King  Charles  ! 

No  —  Charles's  counsellor ! 
Well,  is  it  over.  Marquis  ?     Did  I  jest  ? 

DO.  "  King  Charles !  "     What  then  may  you  be  ? 
Vic.  Anything  1 

A  country  gentleman  that,  cured  of  bustle, 
Now  beats  a  quick  retreat  toward  Chambery, 
Would  hunt  and  hawk  and  leave  you  noisy  folk 
To  drive  your  trade  without  him.      I  'm  Count  Remont  — 
Count  Tende  —  any  little  place's  Count ! 

DO.  Then  Victor,  Captain  against  Catinat 
At  Staffarde,  where  the  French  beat  you ;  and  Duke 
At  Turin,  where  you  beat  the  French;   King  late 

Of  Savoy,  Piedmont,  Montferrat,  Sardinia, 
—  Now,  "  any  little  place's  Count  "  - — 

Vic.  Proceed ! 

2)'0.  Breaker  of  vows  to  God,  who  crowned  you  first ; 

Breaker  of  vows  to  man,  who  kept  you  since ; 

Most  profligate  to  me  who  outraged  God 

And  man  to  serve  you,  and  am  made  pay  crimes 

I  was  but  privy  to,  by  passing  thus 

To  your  imbecile  son  —  who,  well  you  know. 

Must  —  (when  the  people  here,  and  nations  there, 


KING   VICTOR   AND  KING    CHARLES  385 

Clamor  for  you  the  main  delinquent,  slipped 
From  King  to  —  "  Count  of  any  little  place  ") 

—  Must  needs  surrender  me,  all  in  his  reach,  — 
I,  sir,  forgive  you  :  for  I  see  the  end  — 

See  you  on  your  return  —  (you  will  return)  — 
To  him  you  trust  thus  for  the  moment  .  .  . 

Vic.  Trust  him  ?     How  ? 

My  poor  man,  merely  a  piime-minister. 
Make  me  know  where  my  trust  errs ! 

D'O.  In  his  fear, 

His  love,  his  —  but  discover  for  yourself 
What  you  are  weakest,  trusting  in ! 

Vic.  Aha, 

D'Ormea,  not  a  shrewder  scheme  than  this 
In  your  repertory  ?     You  know  old  Victor  — 
Vain,  choleric,  inconstant,  rash  —  (I  've  heard 
Talkers  who  little  thought  the  King  so  close)  — 
Felicitous  now,  were  't  not,  to  provoke  him 
To  clean  forget,  one  minute  afterward, 
II is  solemn  act,  and  call  the  nobles  back 
And  pray  them  give  again  the  very  power 
He  has  abjured  ?  —  for  the  dear  sake  of  what  ? 
Vengeance  on  you,  D'Ormea  !     No  :  such  am  I, 
Count  Tende  or  Count  anything  you  please, 

—  Only,  the  same  that  did  the  things  you  say, 
And,  among  other  things  you  say  not,  used 
Your  finest  fibre,  meanest  muscle,  —  you 

I  used,  and  now,  since  you  will  have  it  so. 
Leave  to  your  fate  —  mere  lumber  in  the  midst. 
You  and  your  works.     Why,  what  on  earth  beside 
Are  you  made  for,  you  sort  of  ministers  r 

D'O.  Not  left,  though,  to  my  fate  !     Your  witless  son 
Has  more  wit  than  to  load  himself  with  lumber  : 
He  foils  you  that  way,  and  I  follow  you. 

V'lC.  Stay  with  my  son  —  protect  the  weaker  side  ! 
UO.  Ay,  to  be  tossed  the  people  like  a  rag, 
And  flung  by  them  for  Spain  and  Austria's  sport, 
Abolishing  the  record  of  your  part 
In  all  this  perfidy  ! 

Vic.  Prevent,  beside. 

My  own  return  ! 

Z>'  0.  That 's  half  prevented  now ! 

'T  will  go  hard  but  you  find  a  wondrous  charm 
In  exile,  to  discredit  me.     The  Alps, 
Silk-mills  to  watch,  vines  asking  vigilance  — 
Hounds  open  for  the  stag,  your  hawk  's  a-wing  — 


386  KING  VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES 

Brave  days  that  wait  the  Louis  of  the  South, 
Italy's  Janus  ! 

Vic.  So,  the  lawyer's  clerk 

Won't  tell  me  that  I  shall  repent ! 

D'O.  You  give  me 

Full  leave  to  ask  if  you  repent  ? 

Vic.  Whene'er 

Sufficient  time  elapse  for  that,  you  judge  ! 

\_Shouts  inside,  "King  Charles." 

D'  0.  Do  you  repent  ? 

Vic.   [after  a  slight  pause.']  .  .  .  I  've  kept  them  waiting  ? 
Yes ! 
Come  in,  complete  the  Abdication,  sir!  [They  go  out. 

Enter  Polyxena. 

Pol.  A  shout !     The  sycophants  are  free  of  Charles  ! 
Oh  is  not  this  like  Italy  ?     No  fruit 
Of  his  or  my  distempered  fancy,  this. 
But  just  an  ordinary  fact !     Beside, 
Here  they  've  set  forms  for  such  proceedings  ;  Victor 
Imprisoned  his  own  mother  :  he  should  know, 
If  any,  how  a  son  's  to  be  deprived 
Of  a  son's  right.     Our  duty  's  palpable. 
Ne'er  was  my  husband  for  the  wily  king 
And  the  unworthy  subjects  :  be  it  so  ! 
Come  you  safe  out  of  them,  my  Charles !     Our  life 
Grows  not  the  broad  and  dazzling  life,  I  dreamed 
Might  prove  your  lot ;  for  strength  was  shut  in  you 
None  guessed  but  I  —  strength  which,  untrammelled  once, 
Had  little  shamed  your  vaunted  ancestry  — 
Patience  and  self-devotion,  fortitude. 
Simplicity  and  utter  truthfulness 
—  AH  which,  they  shout  to  lose  ! 

So,  now  my  work 
Begins  —  to  save  him  from  regret.     Save  Charles 
Regret  ?  —  the  noble  nature  !     He  's  not  made 
Like  these  Italians :   't  is  a  German  soul. 

Charles  enters  croumed. 
Oh,  where  's   the   King's    heir  ?     Gone  :  —  the    Crown-prince  ? 

Gone  :  — 
Where  's  Savoy  ?     Gone  :  —  Sardinia  ?     Gone  !     But  Charles 
Is  left !     And  when  my  Rhine-land  bowers  arrive, 
If  he  looked  almost  handsome  yester-twilight 
As  his  gray  eyes  seemed  widening  into  black 
Because  I  praised  him,  then  how  will  he  look  ? 
Farewell,  you  stri])ped  and  whited  mulberry-trees 
Bound  each  to  each  by  lazy  ropes  of  vine  I 


KING  VICTOR  AND  KING    CHARLES  387 

Now  I  '11  teach  you  my  language  :  I  'm  not  forced 
To  speak  Italian  now,  Charles. 
\_She  sees  the  croivn.~\  What  is  this  ? 

Answer  me  —  who  has  done  this  ?     Answer  ! 

Cha.  He ! 

I  am  King  now. 

Pol.  Oh  worst,  worst,  worst  of  all ! 

Tell  me  !     What,  Victor  ?     He  has  made  you  King  ? 
What 's  he  then  ?     What 's  to  follow  this  ?     You,  King  ? 

Cha.  Have  I  done  wrong  ?     Yes,  for  you  were  not  by  ! 

Pol.  Tell  me  from  first  to  last. 

Cha.  Hush  —  a  new  world 

Brightens  before  me  ;  he  is  moved  away 
—  The  dark  form  that  eclipsed  it,  he  subsides 
Into  a  shape  supporting  me  like  you, 
And  I,  alone,  tend  upward,  more  and  more 
Tend  upward :  I  am  grown  Sardinia's  King. 

Pol.  Now  stop :  was  not  this  Victor,  Duke  of  Savoy 
At  ten  years  old  ? 

Cha.  He  was. 

Pol.  And  the  Duke  spent, 

Since  then,  just  four-and-fifty  years  in  toil 
To  be  —  what  ? 

Cha.  King. 

Pol.  Then  why  unking  himself  ? 

Cha.  Those  years  are  cause  enough. 

Pol.  The  only  cause  ? 

Cha.  Some  new  perplexities. 

Pol.  Which  you  can  solve 

Although  he  cannot  ? 

Cha.  He  assures  me  so. 

Pol.  And  this  he  means  shall  last  —  how  long  ? 

Cha.  How  long  ? 

Think  you  I  fear  the  perils  I  confront  ? 
He  's  praising  me  before  the  people's  face  — 
My  people  ! 

Pol.  Then  he  's  changed  —  grown  kind,  the  King. 

Where  can  the  trap  be  ? 

Cha.  Heart  and  soul  I  f)ledge  ! 

IMy  father,  could  I  guard  the  crown  you  gained, 
Transmit  as  I  received  it,  —  all  good  else 
Would  I  surrender ! 

Pol.  Ah,  it  opens  then 

Before  you,  all  you  dreaded  formerly. 
You  are  rejoiced  to  be  a  king,  my  Charles  ? 

Cha.  So  much  to  dare  !     The  better,  —  much  to  dread ! 


388  KING   VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES 

The  better.     I  '11  adventure  though  alone. 
Triumph  or  die,  there  's  Victor  still  to  witness 
Who  dies  or  triumphs  —  either  way,  alone  ! 

I*ol.  Once  I  had  found  my  share  in  triumph,  Charles, 
Or  death. 

Cha.         But  you  are  I !      But  you  I  call 
To  take,  Heaven's  proxy,  vows  I  tendered  Heaven 
A  moment  since.     I  will  deserve  the  crown  I 

fol.  You  will.      [^Aside.^   No  doubt  it  were  a  glorious  thin^ 
For  any  people,  if  a  heart  like  his 
Ruled  over  it.     I  would  I  saw  the  trap. 

Enter  Victor. 
'T  is  he  must  show  me. 

Vic.  So,  the  mask  falls  off 

An  old  man's  foolish  love  at  last.     Spare  thanks  J 
I  know  you,  and  Polyxena  I  know. 

Here  's  Charles  —  I  am  his  guest  now  —  does  he  bid  me 
Be  seated  ?     And  my  light-haired  blue-eyed  child 
Must  not  forget  the  old  man  far  away 
At  Chambery,  who  dozes  while  she  reigns. 

Pol.  Most  grateful  shall  we  now  be,  talking  least 
Of  gratitude  —  indeed  of  anything 
That  hinders  what  yourself  must  need  to  say 
To  Charles. 

Cha,  Pray  speak,  sir  ! 

Vic.  'Faith,  not  much  to  say  : 

Only  what  shows  itself,  you  once  i'  the  point 
Of  sight.     You  're  now  the  King :  you  "11  comprehend 
Much  you  may  oft  have  wondered  at  —  the  shifts. 
Dissimulation,  wiliness  I  showed. 

For  what 's  our  post  ?     Here  's  Savoy  and  here  's  Piedmont, 
Here  's  Montferrat  —  a  breadth  here,  a  space  there  — 
To  o'er-sw^eep  all  these,  what 's  one  weapon  worth  ? 
I  often  think  of  how  they  fought  in  Greece 
(Or  Rome,  which  was  it  ?     You  're  the  scholar,  Charles  !) 
You  made  a  front-thrust.      But  if  your  shield  too 
AVere  not  adroitly  planted,  some  shrewd  knave 
Reached  you  behind  ;  and  him  foiled,  straight  if  thong 
And  handle  of  that  shield  were  not  cast  loose, 
And  you  enabled  to  outstrip  the  wind. 
Fresh  foes  assailed  you.  either  side  ;  'scape  these, 
And  reach  your  place  of  refuge  —  e'en  then,  odds 
If  the  gate  opened  unless  breath  enough 
AVere  left  in  you  to  make  its  lord  a  speech. 
Oh,  you  will  see  ! 

Cha.  No  :   straight  on  sluill  I  go. 

Truth  helping ;  win  with  it  or  die  with  it. 


KING  VICTOR  AND  KING   CHARLES  389 

Vic.  'Faith,  Charles,  you  're  not  made  Earoi)e's fighting-man! 
The  harrier-guard er,  if  you  please.     You  clutch 
Hold  and  consolidate,  with  envious  France 
This  side,  with  Austria  tliat,  the  territory 
I  held  —  ay,  and  will  hold  .   .  .  which  you  shall  hold 
Despite  the  couple  !     But  I  've  surely  earned 
Exemption  from  these  weary  politics, 
• —  The  privilege  to  prattle  with  my  son 
And  daughter  here,  though  Europe  wait  the  while. 

Fol.  Nay,  sir,  —  at  Chamhery,  away  forever, 
As  soon  you  will  be,  'tis  farewell  we  bid  you  : 
Turn  these  few  fleeting  moments  to  account ! 
'T  is  just  as  though  it  were  a  death. 

Vic.  Indeed ! 

Pol.  \_Aside.^  Is  the  trap  there  ? 

Cha.  Ay,  call  this  parting  —  death! 

The  sacreder  your  memory  becomes. 
If  I  misrule  Sardinia,  how  bring  back 
My  father  ? 

Vic.  I  mean  .  .  . 

Pol.  \ivho  watches  Victor  narrowly  this  ivhile.'] 

Your  father  does  not  mean 
You  should  be  ruling  for  your  father's  sake : 
It  is  your  people  must  concern  you  wholly 
Instead  of  him.     You  mean  this,  sir  ?      (He  drojDS 
My  hand  1) 

Cha.  That  people  is  now  part  of  me. 

Vic.  About  the  people  I     I  took  certain  measures 
Some  short  time  since  .  .   .  Oh,  I  know  well,  you  know 
But  little  of  my  measures  !     These  affect 
The  nobles  ;  we  've  resumed  some  grants,  imposed 
A  tax  or  two :  prepare  yourself,  in  short, 
For  clamor  on  that  score.     Mark  me  :  you  yield 
No  jot  of  aught  entrusted  you ! 

Pol.  No  jot 

You  yield ! 

Cha.  My  father,  when  I  took  the  oath, 

Although  my  eye  might  stray  in  search  of  yours, 
I  heard  it,  understood  it,  promised  God 
What  you  require.     Till  from  this  eminence 
He  move  me,  here  I  keep,  nor  shall  concede 
The  meanest  of  my  rights. 

Vic.  \^Aside.~\  The  boy's  a  fool ! 

—  Or  rather,  I  'm  a  fool :  for,  vA'hat  's  wrong  here  ? 
To-day  the  sweets  of  reigning :  let  to-morrow 
Be  ready  with  its  bitters. 


390  KING  VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES 

Enter  D'Ormea. 

There  's  beside 
Somewhat  to  press  upon  your  notice  first. 

Cha.  Then  why  delay  it  for  an  instant,  sir  ? 
That  Spanish  claim  perchance  ?     And,  now  you  speak, 
—  This  morning,  my  opinion  was  mature, 
"Which,  boy-like,  I  was  bashful  in  producing 
To  one  I  ne'er  am  like  to  fear  in  future  I 
My  thought  is  formed  upon  that  Spanish  claim. 

Vic.  Betimes  indeed.      Not  now,  Charles  !     You  require 
A  host  of  papers  on  it. 

D'O.  \_cominfj  forward.']     Here  they  are. 
\_To  Cha.]  I  was  the  minister  and  much  beside 
Of  the  late  monarch  ;  to  say  little,  him 
I  served  :  on  you  I  have,  to  say  e'en  less. 
No  claim.     This  case  contains  those  papers  :  with  them 
I  tender  you  my  office. 

Vic.   [hastili/.']  Keep  him,  Charles ! 

There  's  reason  for  it  —  many  reasons  :  you 
Distrust  him,  nor  are  so  far  wrong  there,  —  but 
He  's  mixed  up  in  this  matter  —  he  11  desire 
To  quit  you,  for  occasions  known  to  me : 
Do  not  accept  those  reasons :  have  him  stay  ! 

Fol.  [^Aside.']  His  minister  thrust  on  us  ! 

Cka.  [to  D'Ormea.]  Sir,  believe, 

In  justice  to  myself,  you  do  not  need 
E'en  this  commending  :  howsoe'er  might  seem 
My  feelings  toward  you,  as  a  private  man, 
They  quit  me  in  the  vast  and  untried  field 
Of  action.     Though  I  shall  myself  (as  late 
In  your  own  hearing  I  engaged  to  do) 
Preside  o'er  my  Sardinia,  yet  your  help 
Is  necessary.     Think  the  past  forgotten 
And  serve  me  now ! 

D'O.  I  did  not  offer  you 

My  service  —  would  that  I  could  serve  you,  sir  ! 
As  for  the  Spanish  matter  .  .  . 

Vic.  But  dispatch 

At  least  the  dead,  in  my  good  daughter's  phrase, 
Before  the  living !     Help  to  house  me  safe 
Ere  with  D'Ormea  you  set  the  world  agape  ! 
Here  is  a  paper  —  will  you  overlook 
What  I  ])ropose  reserving  for  my  needs  ? 
I  get  as  far  from  you  as  possible : 
Here  's  what  I  reckon  my  expenditure. 

C/ia.  \_readinf/.']  A  miserable  fifty  thousand  crowns ! 


KING  VICTOR   AND  KIXG   CHARLES  391 

Vic.  Oh  quite  enough  for  country  gentlemen  ! 
Beside,  the  exchequer  happens  .  .  •  but  find  out 
All  that,  yourself  ! 

Cha.  [^still  reading.']  "  Count  Tende  "  —  what  means  this  ? 
Vic,  5le :  you  were  but  an  infant  when  I  burst 
Through  the  defile  of  Teude  upon  France. 
Had  only  my  allies  kept  true  to  me  ! 
No  miatter.     Tende  's,  then,  a  name  I  take 
Just  as  .  .   . 

DO.  — The  Marchioness  Sebastian  takes 

The  name  of  Spigno. 

Cha.  How.  sir? 

X7c.  [fo  D'Ormka.]  Fooi:     All  that 

Was  for  my  own  detailing.     \_To  Chakles.]  That  anon  ! 
Cha.  [to  D"Ormea.]  Explain  what  you  have  said,  sir ! 
D'O.  I  supposed 

The  marriacre  of  the  Kinor  to  her  I  named. 
Profoundly  kept  a  secret  these  few  weeks. 
Was  not  to  be  one.  now  he  's  Count. 

Pol.  [Aside.']  With  us 

The  minister  —  with  him  the  mistress  ! 

Cha.  [to  Victor.]  No  — 

Tell  me  you  have  not  taken  her  —  that  woman  — 
To  live  with,  past  recall ! 

Vic.  And  where  's  the  crime  .  .  . 

Pol.  [to  Charles.]  True,  sir.  this  is  a  matter  past  recall 
And  past  your  cognizance.     A  day  before. 
And  you  had  been  compelled  to  note  this  —  now 
Why  note  it  ?     The  King  saved  his  House  from  shame: 
What  the  Count  did.  is  no  concern  of  yours. 

Cha.  [after  a  pause.]  The  Spanish  claim.  D'Omiea  ! 
yic.       '  Why.  my  son, 

I  took  some  ill-advised  .  .  .  one's  age.  in  fact, 
Spoils  everything :  though  I  was  over-reached, 
A  younger  brain,  we  '11  trust,  may  extricate 
S.inlinia  readily.     To-morrow.  D'Ormea. 
Inform  the  King  '. 

D^O.  [without  regarding  Victor,  and  leisurehj.] 
Thus  stands  the  case  with  Spain  : 
AVhen  first  the  Infant  Carlos  claimed  his  proper 
Succession  to  the  throne  of  Tuscany  .  .  . 

T'/V.  I  tell  you  that  stands  over  !     Let  that  rest ! 
There  is  the  policy  ! 

Cha.  [to  D' Or  ME  A.  J  Thus  much  I  know, 
And  more  —  too  much.     The  remedy  ? 

Z)'0.  Of  course  I 

No  glimpse  of  one. 


392  KING  VICTOR  AND  KING   CHARLES 

Vic.  No  remedy  at  all ! 

It  makes  the  remedy  itself  —  time  makes  it. 

Z>'0.  [2^0  Charles.]  But  if  .  .  . 

Vic.  [_stlll  more  hastily.']  In  fine,  I  shall  take  care  of  that : 
And,  with  another  project  that  I  have  .   .  . 

D'O.  [turnbig  on  him.]    Oh,  since  Count  Tsnde  means  to 
take  auain 
King  Victor's  crown  !  — 

Fol.  [throwing  herself  at  Victor's /ee^.]     E'en  now  retake 
it,  sir  ! 
Oh,  speak  !     We  are  your  subjects  both,  once  more  ! 
Say  it  —  a  word  effects  it !     You  meant  not. 
Nor  do  mean  now,  to  take  it :  but  you  must ! 
'T  is  in  you  —  in  your  nature  —  and  the  shame  's 
Not  half  the  shame  't  would  grow  to  afterwards  ! 

Cha.  Polyxena ! 

Pol.  A  word  recalls  the  knights  — 

Say  it  I  —  What 's  promising  and  what 's  the  past  ? 
Say  you  are  still  King  Victor  ! 

i>'(9.  Better  say 

The  Count  repents,  in  brief  !  [Victor  rises. 

Cha.  With  such  a  crime 

I  have  not  charged  you,  sir ! 

Pol,  Charles  turns  from  me  ! 


SECOND  YEAR,  1731.  —  KING  CHARLES. 

Part  I. 

Enter  Queen  Polyxena  and  D'Ormea.  —  A  pause. 

Pol.  And  now,  sir,  what  have  you  to  say  ? 

D'O.  Count  Tende  .  .  . 

Pol.  Affirm  not  I  betrayed  you ;  you  resolve 
On  utterino;  this  stranc^e  intelli^rence 
—  Nay,  post  yourself  to  find  me  ere  I  reach 
The  capital,  because  you  know  King  Charles 
Tarries  a  day  or  two  at  Evian  baths 
Behind  me  :  —  but  take  warning,  —  here  and  thus 

[Seating  herself  in  the  royal  seal 
I  listen,  if  I  listen  —  not  your  friend. 
Explicitly  the  statement,  if  you  still 
Persist  to  urge  it  on  me,  must  proceed  : 
I  am  not  made  for  aught  else. 

UO.  Good!     Count  Tende  .  .  . 

Pol.   I,  who  mistrust  you,  sliall  acquaint  King  Charles, 
Who  even  more  mistrusts  you. 


KING   VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES  393 

D'O.  Does  he  so  ? 

Pol.  Why  shoukl  he  not  ? 

D'O.  Ay,  why  not?     Motives,  seek 

You  virtuous  people,  motives  I     Say,  I  serve 
God  at  the  devil's  bidding  —  will  that  do  ? 
I  'ni  proud  :  our  people  have  been  pacified. 
Really  I  know  not  how  — 

Pol.  By  truthfulness. 

DO.   Exactly  ;  that  shows  I  had  nouglit  to  do 
Witli  pacifying  them.     Our  foreign  perils 
Also  exceed  my  means  to  stay :  but  here 
'T  is  otherwise,  and  my  pride  's  piqued.     Count  Tende 
Completes  a  full  year's  absence  :  would  you,  madam, 
Have  the  old  monarch  back,  his  mistress  back, 
His  measures  back  ?     I  pray  you,  act  upon 
My  counsel,  or  they  will  be. 

Pol.  When  ? 

D'O.  Let's  think. 

Home-matters  settled  —  Victor  's  coming  now  ; 
Let  foreign  matters  settle  —  Victor  's  here 
Unless  I  stop  him  ;  as  I  will,  this  way. 

Pol.  \_readirig  the  papers  he  presents.'\     If  this  should  prove 
a  plot  'twixt  you  and  Victor  ? 
You  seek  annoyances  to  give  pretext 
For  what  you  say  you  fear ! 

D'O.  Oh,  possibly! 

I  go  for  nothing.     Only  show  King  Charles 
That  thus  Count  Tende  purposes  return. 
And  style  me  his  inviter,  if  you  please  ! 

Pol.  Half  of  your  tale  is  true  ;    most  like,  the  Count 
Sesks  to  return  :  but  why  stay  you  with  us  ? 
To  aid  in  such  emergencies. 

Z>'0.  Keep  safe 

Those  papers :  or,  to  serve  me,  leave  no  proof 
I  thus  have  counselled  !  when  the  Count  returns, 
And  the  King  abdicates,  't  will  stead  me  little 
To  have  thus  counselled. 

Pol.  The  King  abdicate  ! 

D'  0.   He  's  good,  we  knew  long  since  —  wise,  we  discover  — 
Firm,  let  us  hope  :  —  but  I  'd  hav^e  gone  to  work 
With  him  away.     Well  I 

[Charles  without.^        In  the  Council  Chamber  ? 

D'O.  All's  lost! 

Pol.  Oh,  surely  not  King  Charles  !      He  's  changed  — 
That 's  not  this  year's  care-burdened  voice  and  step : 
'T  is  last  year's  step,  the  Prince's  voice  ! 


394  KING  VICTOR  AND  KING   CHARLES 

jyO.  I  know. 

Enter  Charles  —  D'Ormea  retiring  a  little. 
Cha.  Now  wish  me  joy,  Polyxena  !     Wish  it  me 
The  old  way  !  \_She  embraces  him. 

There  was  too  much  cause  for  that ! 
But  I  have  found  myself  again.     What  news 
At  Turin  ?     Oh,  if  you  but  felt  the  load 
I  'm  free  of  —  free  !     I  said  this  year  would  end 
Or  it,  or  me  —  but  I  am  free,  thank  God  I 
Pol.  How,  Charles  ? 

Cha.  You  do  not  guess  ?     The  day  I  found 

-Sardinia's  hideous  coil,  at  home,  abroad, 
And  how  my  father  was  involved  in  it,  — 
Of  course,  I  vowed  to  rest  and  smile  no  more 
Until  I  cleared  his  name  from  obloquy. 
We  did  the  people  right  —  't  was  much  to  gain 
That  point,  redress  our  nobles'  grievance,  too  — 
But  that  took  place  here,  was  no  crying  shame  : 
All  must  be  done  abroad,  —  if  I  abroad 
Appeased  the  justly-angered  Powers,  destroyed 
The  scandal,  took  down  Victor's  name  at  last 
From  a  bad  eminence,  I  then  might  breathe 
And  rest !     No  moment  was  to  lose.     Behold 
The  proud  result  —  a  Treaty,  Austria,  Spain 
Agree  to  — 

UO.  \_Aside.~\  I  shall  merely  stipulate 
For  an  experienced  headsman. 

Cha.  Not  a  soul 

Is  compromised  :  the  blotted  past 's  a  blank  : 
Even  D'Ormea  escapes  unquestioned.     See  ! 
It  reached  me  from  Vienna  ;  I  remained 
At  Evian  to  dispatch  the  Count  his  news  ; 
'T  is  gone  to  Chambery  a  week  ago  — 
And  here  am  I :  do  I  deserve  to  feel 
Your  warm  white  arms  around  me  ? 

D'O.  [cominr/ forivard.]  He  knows  that? 

Cha.  What,  in  Heaven's  name,  means  this  ? 
Z>'  0.  He  knows  that  matters 

Are  settled  at  Vienna  ?     Not  too  late  ! 
Plainly,  unless  you  post  this  very  hour 
Some  man  you  trust  (say,  me)  to  Chambery 
And  take  precautions  I  acquaint  you  with, 
Your  father  will  return  here. 

Cha.  Are  you  crazed, 

D'Ormea  ?     Here  ?     For  what  ?     As  well  return 
To  take  his  crown  ! 

i>'  0.  He  will  return  for  that. 


KING  VICTOR  AND  KING   CHARLES  395 

Cha.  \to  PoLYXENA.]   You  have  not  listened  to  this  man  ? 
Pol.  He  spoke 

About  your  safety  —  and  I  listened. 

\_He  disengages  himself  from  her  aimns. 

Cha.  [to  D'Ormea.]  What 

Apprised  you  of  the  Count's  intentions  ? 

D'O.  Me? 

His  heart,  sir  ;  you  may  not  be  used  to  read 
Such  evidence  however  ;  therefore  read 

[Pointing  to  Polyxena's  papers. 

My  evidence. 

Cha.   [to  PoLYXEXA.]   Oh,  worthy  this  of  you  ! 
And  of  your  speech  I  never  have  fori^otten, 
Though  I  professed  forgetfulness  ;  which  haunts  me 
As  if  I  did  not  know  how  false  it  was  ; 
Which  made  me  toil  unconsciously  thus  long 
That  there  might  be  no  least  occasion  left 
For  aught  of  its  prediction  coming  true ! 
And  now,  when  there  is  left  no  least  occasion 
To  instigate  my  father  to  such  crime  — 
When  I  might  venture  to  forget  (I  hoped) 
That  speech  and  recognize  Polyxena  — 
Oh  worthy,  to  revive,  and  tenfold  worse. 
That  plague !     D'Ormea  at  your  ear,  his  slanders 
Still  in  your  hand  !     Silent  ? 

Pol.  As  the  wronged  are. 

Cha.  And  you,  D'Ormea,  since  when  have  you  presumed 
To  spy  upon  my  father  ?     I  conceive 
What  that  wise  paper  shows,  and  easily. 
Since  when  ? 

Z>'0.  The  when  and  where  and  how  belong 

To  me.     'T  is  sad  work,  but  I  deal  in  such. 
You  ofttimes  serve  yourself  ;  I  'd  serve  you  here  : 
Use  makes  me  not  so  squeamish.     In  a  word, 
Since  the  first  hour  he  went  to  Chambery, 
Of  his  seven  servants,  five  have  I  suborned. 

Cha.  You  hate  my  father? 

D'  0.  Oh,  just  as  you  will ! 

[Looking  at  Polyxena. 

A  minute  since,  I  loved  him  —  hate  him,  now  ! 
What  matter  ?  —  if  you  ponder  just  one  thing  : 
Has  he  that  treaty  ?  —  he  is  setting  forward 
Already.     Are  your  guards  here  ? 

Cha.  Well  for  you 

They  are  not !      [To  Pol.]   Him  I  knew  of  old,  but  you  — 
To  hear  that  pickthank^  further  his  designs  I     [To  D'O. 


396  KING  VICTOR  AND  KING   CHARLES 

Guards  ?  —  were  they  here,  I  'd  bid  them,  for  your  trouble, 
Arrest  you. 

DO.  Guards  you  shall  not  want.     I  lived 

The  servant  of  your  choice,  not  of  your  need. 
You  never  greatly  needed  me  till  now 
That  you  discard  me.     This  is  my  arrest. 
Again  I  tender  you  my  charge  —  its  duty 
"Would  bid  me  press  you  read  those  documents. 
Here,  sir!  [Offering  his  badge  of  office. 

Cha.  [taking  ^Y.]  The  papers  also  !     Do  you  think 
I  dai'e  not  read  them  ? 

Pol.  Read  them,  sir  I 

Cha.  They  prove, 

My  father,  still  a  month  within  the  year 
Since  he  so  solemnly  consigned  it  me, 
Means  to  resume  his  crown  ?     They  shall  prove  that, 
Or  my  best  dungeon  ... 

D"  0.  Even  say,  Chambery  ! 

'T  is  vacant,  I  surmise,  by  this. 

Cha.  You  prove 

Your  words  or  pay  their  forfeit,  sir.     Go  there ! 
Polyxena,  one  chance  to  rend  the  veil 
Tliickening  and  blackening  'twixt  us  two !     Do  say, 
You  '11  see  the  falsehood  of  the  charges  proved  I 
Do  say,  at  least,  you  wish  to  see  them  proved 
False  charges  —  my  heart's  love  of  other  times  ! 

Fol.  Ah,  Charles ! 

Cha.   [to  D'Ormea.]  Precede  me,  sir  ! 

D'O.  And  I 'm  at  length 

A  martyr  for  the  truth !     No  end,  they  say, 
Of  miracles.     My  conscious  innocence  ! 

l^As  they  go  out,  enter —  by  the  middle  door,  at  lohich  he  pauses  — 
Victor. 

Vic.  Sure  I  heard  voices  ?     No.     Well,  I  do  best 
To  make  at  once  for  this,  the  heart  o'  the  place. 
The  old  room  !     Nothing  changed  !     So  near  my  seat, 
D'Ormea?     [Pushing  at v a g  the  stool  which  is  bij  the  King's 
chair. 
I  want  that  meeting  over  first, 
I  know  not  why.     Tush,  he,  D'Ormea,  slow 
To  hearten  me,  the  supple  knave  !     That  burst 
Of  spite  so  eased  him  !     He  11  inform  me  .  .   . 

What? 
Why  come  I  hither  ?     All 's  in  rough  :  let  all 
Remain  rough.     There  's  full  time  to  draw  back  —  nay, 
There  's  nought  to  draw  back  from,  as  yet ;  whereas. 
If  reason  should  be,  to  arrest  a  course 


KING  VICTOR  AND  KING   CHARLES  397 

Of  error  —  reason  good,  to  interpose 
And  save,  as  I  have  saved  so  many  times, 
Our  House,  admonish  my  son's  giddy  youth, 
Relieve  liim  of  a  weight  that  proves  too  much  — 
Now  is  the  time,  —  or  now,  or  never. 

'Faith, 
This  kind  of  step  is  jjitiful,  not  due 
To  Charles,  this  stealing  hack  —  hither,  because 
He  's  from  his  ea])ital  I     Oh  Victor  !   Victor  ! 
But  thus  it  is.     The  age  of  crafty  men 
Is  loathsome  ;  youth  contrives  to  carry  off 
Dissimulation  ;  we  may  intersperse 
Extenuating  passages  of  strength, 
Ardor,  vivacity  and  wit  —  niay  turn 
E'en  guile  into  a  voluntary  grace  : 
But  one's  old  age,  when  graces  drop  away 
And  leave  guile  the  pure  staple  of  our  lives  — 
Ah,  loathsome ! 

Not  so  —  or  why  pause  I  ?     Turin 
Is  mine  to  have,  were  I  so  minded,  for 
The  asking  ;  all  the  army  's  mine  —  I  've  witnessed 
Each  i^rivate  fight  beneath  me  ;  all  the  Court 's 
Mine  too ;  and,  best  of  all,  D'Ormea  's  still 
D'Ormea  and  mine.     There  's  some  grace  clinging  yet. 
Had  I  decided  on  this  stej),  ere  midnight 
I  'd  take  the  crown. 

No.     Just  this  step  to  rise 
Exhausts  me.     Here  am  I  arrived  :  the  rest 
Must  be  done  for  me.     Would  I  could  sit  here 
And  let  things  right  themselves,  the  masque  unmasque 
Of  the  old  King,  crownless,  gray  hair  and  hot  blood,  — 
The  young  King,  crowned,  but  calm  before  his  time, 
They  say,  —  the  eager  mistress  with  her  taunts,  — 
And  the  sad  earnest  wife  who  motions  me 
Away  —  ay,  there  she  knelt  to  me  !     E'en  yet 
I  can  return  and  sleep  at  Chambery 
A  dream  out. 

Rather  shake  it  off  at  Turin, 
King  Victor  !      Say  :  to  Turin  —  yes,  or  no  ? 

'T  is  this  relentless  noonday-lighted  chamber, 
Lighted  like  life  but  silent  as  the  grave. 
That  disconcerts  me.     That 's  the  change  must  strike. 
No  silence  last  year  !     Some  one  flung  doors  wide 
(Those  two  great  doors  which  scrutinize  me  now) 
And  out  I  went  'mid  crowds  of  men  —  men  talking. 
Men  watching  if  my  lip  fell  or  brow  knit. 
Men  saw  me  safe  forth,  put  me  on  my  road  : 


398  KING   VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES 

That  makes  the  misery  of  this  return. 

Oh  had  a  battle  done  it !     Had  I  dropped, 

HaHng  some  battle,  three  entire  days  old. 

Hither  and  thither  by  the  forehead  —  dropped 

In  Spain,  in  Austria,  best  of  all,  in  France  — 

Spurned  on  its  horns  or  underneath  its  hoofs, 

When  the  spent  monster  went  upon  its  knees 

To  pad  and  pasli  the  prostrate  wretch  —  I,  Victor, 

Sole  to  have  stood  up  against  France,  beat  down 

By  inches,  brayed  to  pieces  finally 

In  some  vast  unimaginable  charore, 

A  flying  hell  of  horse  and  foot  and  guns 

Over  me,  and  all 's  lost,  forever  lost, 

There  's  no  more  Victor  when  the  world  wakes  up ! 

Then  silence,  as  of  a  raw  battlefield. 

Throughout  the  world.     Then  after  (as  whole  days 

After,  you  catch  at  intervals  faint  noise 

Through  the  stiff  crust  of  frozen  blood)  —  there  creeps 

A  rumor  forth,  so  faint,  no  noise  at  all. 

That  a  strange  old  man,  with  face  outworn  for  wounds, 

Is  stumbling  on  from  frontier  town  to  town, 

Begging  a  pittance  that  may  help  him  find 

His  Turin  out ;  what  scorn  and  laughter  follow 

The  coin  you  fling  into  his  cap !     And  last. 

Some  bright  morn,  how  men  crowd  about  the  midst 

O'  the  market-place,  where  takes  the  old  king  breath 

Ere  with  his  crutch  he  strike  the  palace-gate 

Wide  ope  ! 

To  Turin,  yes  or  no  —  or  no  ? 
Re-enter  Charles  with  papers. 

Cha.  Just  as  I  thought !     A  miserable  falsehood 
Of  hirelings  discontented  wdth  their  pay 
And  longing  for  enfranchisement !     A  few 
Testy  expressions  of  old  age  that  thinks 
To  keep  alive  its  dignity  o'er  slaves 
By  means  that  suit  their  natures  I 

[Tearing  them.]        Thus  they  shake 
My  faith  in  Victor  ! 

[Turning,  he  discovers  Victor. 

Vic.  [after  a  pause.']     Not  at  Evian,  Charles  ? 
What 's  this  ?     Why  do  you  run  to  close  the  doors  ? 
No  welcome  for  your  father  ? 

Cha.  [Aside.]  Not  his  voice  ! 

What  would  I  give  for  one  im})erious  tone 
Of  the  old  sort !     That 's  gone  forever. 

Vic.  Must 

I  ask  once  more  .  .  . 


KING  VICTOR  AND  KING   CHARLES  399 

Cha.  No  —  I  concede  it,  sir  ! 

You  are  returned  for  .  .   .  true,  your  health  declines ; 
True,  Chanibery  's  a  bleak  unkindly  spot  ; 
You  'd  choose  one  fitter  for  your  final  lodge  — 
Veneria,  or  Moncaglier  —  ay,  that 's  close 
And  I  concede  it. 

Vic.  I  received  advices 

Of  the  conclusion  of  the  Spanish  matter, 
Dated  from  Evian  Baths  .  .  . 

Cha.  And  you  forbore 

To  visit  me  at  Evian,  satisfied 
The  work  I  had  to  do  would  fully  task 
The  little  wit  I  have,  and  that  your  presence 
AVould  only  disconcert  me  — 

Vic.  Charles  ? 

Cha.  — Me,  set 

Forever  in  a  foreign  course  to  yours, 
And  .  .  . 

Sir,  this  way  of  wile  were  good  to  catch, 
But  I  have  not  the  sleight  of  it.     The  truth ! 
Though  I  sink  under  it  I      What  brings  you  here  ? 

Vic.  Not  hope  of  this  reception,  certainly. 
From  one  who  'd  scarce  assume  a  stranger  mode 
Of  speech,  did  I  return  to  brmg  about 
Some  awfullest  calamity  ! 

Cha.  —  You  mean, 

Did  you  require  your  crown  again  !     Oh  yes, 
I  should  speak  otherwise  !     But  turn  not  that 
To  jesting  !     Sir,  the  truth  I     Your  health  declines? 
Is  aught  deficient  in  your  equipage  ? 
Wisely  you  seek  myself  to  make  complaint, 
And  foil  the  malice  of  the  world  which  laughs 
At  petty  discontents  ;  but  I  shall  care 
That  not  a  soul  knows  of  this  visit.     Speak  ! 

Vic.  \_Aside.']  Here  is  the  grateful  much-professing  son 
Prepared  to  worship  me,  for  whose  sole  sake 
I  think  to  waive  my  plans  of  public  good  ! 
\_Aloud.^  N^y?  Charles,  if  I  did  seek  to  take  once  more 
My  crown,  were  so  disposed  to  plague  myself, 
What  would  be  warrant  for  this  bitterness  ? 
I  gave  it  —  grant  I  would  resume  it  —  well  ? 

Cha.  I  should  say  simply  —  leaving  out  the  why 
And  how  —  you  made  me  swear  to  keep  that  crown  : 
And  as  you  then  intended  .  .  . 

Vic.  Fool !     What  way 

Could  I  intend  or  not  intend  ?     As  man, 


400  KING  VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES 

With  a  man's  will,  when  I  say  "  I  intend," 

I  can  intend  up  to  a  certain  point, 

No  further.     I  intended  to  preserve 

The  crown  of  Savoy  and  Sardinia  whole  : 

And  if  events  arise  demonstrating 

The  way,  I  hoped  should  guard  it,  rather  like 

To  lose  it  .  .  . 

Cha.  Keep  within  your  sphere  and  mine  ! 

It  is  God's  province  we  usurp  on,  else. 
Here,  blindfold  through  the  maze  of  things  we  walk 
By  a  slight  clue  of  false,  true,  right  and  wrong ; 
All  else  is  rambling  and  presumption.     I 
Have  sworn  to  keep  this  kingdom  :   there  's  my  truth. 

Vic.  Truth,  boy,  is  here,  within  my  breast ;  and  in 
Your  recognition  of  it,  truth  is,  too ; 
And  in  the  effect  of  all  this  tortuous  dealing 
With  falsehood,  used  to  carry  out  the  truth, 
—  In  its  success,  this  falsehood  turns,  again. 
Truth  for  the  world !     But  you  are  right :  these  themes 
Are  over-subtle.     I  should  rather  say 
In  such  a  case,  frankly,  —  it  fails,  my  scheme : 
I  hoped  to  see  you  bring  about,  yourself. 
What  I  must  bring  about.      I  interpose 
On  your  behalf  —  with  my  son's  good  in  sight  — 
To  hold  what  he  is  nearly  letting  go, 
Confirm  his  title,  add  a  grace  perhaps. 
There  's  Sicily,  for  instance,  —  granted  me 
And  taken  back,  some  years  since  :  till  I  give 
That  island  with  the  rest,  my  work  's  half  done. 
For  his  sake,  therefore,  as  of  those  he  rules  .   .   . 

Cha.  Our  sakes  are  one  ;  and  that,  you  could  not  say, 
Because  my  answer  would  present  itself 
Forthwith  :  —  a  year  has  wrought  an  age's  change. 
This  people  's  not  the  peoj^le  now,  you  once 
Could  benefit ;  nor  is  my  policy 
Your  policy. 

Vic.   [with  an  outburst.']     I  know  it !     You  undo 
All  I  have  done  —  my  life  of  toil  and  care  ! 
I  left  you  this  the  absolutest  rule 
In  Europe  :  do  you  think  I  will  sit  still 
And  see  you  throw  power  to  the  populace  — 
See  my  Sardinia,  that  has  stood  a])art. 
Join  in  the  mad  and  democratic  whirl 
Whereto  I  see  all  Europe  haste  full  tide  ? 
England  casts  off  her  kings  ;  France  mimics  England  : 


KING  VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES  401 

This  realm  I  hoped  was  safe !     Yet  here  I  talk, 
When  I  can  save  it,  not  by  force  alone. 
But  bidding  plagues,  which  follow  sons  like  you. 
Fasten  upon  my  disobedient  .  .  . 

\_liecolleeting  hh}iself.~\     Surely 
I  could  say  this  —  if  minded  so  —  my  son  ? 

Cha.  You  could  not.     Bitterer  curses  than  your  curse 
Have  I  long  since  denounced  upon  myself 
If  I  misused  my  jiower.      In  fear  of  these 
I  entered  on  those  measures  —  will  abide 
By  them  :  so,  I  should  say.  Count  Tende  .   .  . 

Vic.  No ! 

But  no  !     But  if,  my  Charles,  your  —  more  than  old  — 
Half-foolish  father  urged  these  arguments. 
And  then  confessed  them  futile,  but  said  plainly 
That  he  forgot  his  promise,  found  his  strength 
Fail  him,  had  thought  at  savage  Chambery 
Too  much  of  brilHant  Turin,  Rivoli  here, 
And  Susa,  and  Yeneria,  and  Superga  — 
Pined  for  the  pleasant  places  he  had  built 
When  he  was  fortunate  and  young  — 

Cha.  My  father ! 

Vic.  Stay  yet !  —  and  if  he  said  he  could  not  die 
Deprived  of  baubles  he  had  put  aside, 
He  deemed,  forever  —  of  the  Crown  that  binds 
Your  brain  up,  whole,  sound  and  impregnable. 
Creating  kingliness  —  the  Sceptre  too. 
Whose  mere  wind,  should  you  wave  it,  back  would  beat 
Invaders  —  and  the  golden  Ball  which  throbs 
As  if  you  grasped  the  palpitating  heart 
Indeed  o'  the  realm,  to  mould  as  you  may  choose  ! 
—  If  I  must  totter  up  and  down  the  streets 
My  sires  built,  where  myself  have  introduced 
And  fostered  laws  and  letters,  sciences. 
The  civil  and  the  military  arts  ! 
Stay,  Charles !     I  see  you  letting  me  pretend 
To  live  my  former  self  once  more  —  King  Victor, 
The  venturous  yet  politic  :  they  style  me 
Again,  the  Father  of  the  Prince  :  friends  wink 
Good-humoredly  at  the  delusion  you 
So  sedulously  guard  from  all  rough  truths 
That  else  would  break  uj)on  my  dotage  !  —  You  — 
Whom  now  I  see  preventing  my  old  shame  — 
I  tell  not,  point  by  cruel  point,  my  tale  — 
For  is  't  not  in  your  breast  my  brow  is  hid  ? 
Is  not  your  hand  extended  ?     Say  you  not  .  .  . 


402  KING  VICTOR  AND  KING   CHARLES 

Enter  D'Ormea,  leading  in  Polyxena. 
Pol.  [advancing  and  withdrawing  Chajrles  —  to  Tictor.] 
In  this  conjuncture  even,  he  would  say 
(Though  with  a  moistened  eye  and  quivering  lip) 
The  suppliant  is  my  father.     I  must  save 
A  great  man  from  himself,  nor  see  him  fling 
His  well-earned  fame  away  :  there  must  not  follow 
Ruin  so  utter,  a  break-down  of  worth 
So  absolute  :   no  enemy  shall  learn, 
He  thrust  his  child  'twixt  danger  and  himself, 
And,  when  that  child  somehow  stood  danger  out. 
Stole  back  with  serpent  wiles  to  ruin  Charles 

—  Body,  that 's  much,  —  and  soul,  that 's  more  —  ana  realm, 
That 's  most  of  all  I     No  enemy  shall  say  .  .  . 

D'O.  Do  you  repent,  sir  ? 

Vic.   \_resicming  himself.^  D'Ormea  ?     This  is  well ! 
Worthily  done.  King  Charles,  craftily  done  ! 
Judiciously  you  post  these,  to  o'erhear 
The  little  your  importunate  father  thrusts 
Himself  on  you  to  say  !  —  Ah,  they  '11  correct 
The  amiable  blind  facility 
You  show  in  answering  his  peevish  suit. 
What  can  he  need  to  sue  for  ?     Bravely,  D'Ormea, 
Have  you  fulfilled  your  office  :  but  for  you. 
The  old  Count  might  have  drawn  some  few  more  livres 
To  swell  his  income  !     Had  you,  lady,  missed 
The  moment,  a  permission  would  be  granted 
To  buttress  up  my  ruinous  old  pile  ! 
But  you  remember  properly  the  list 
Of  wise  precautions  I  took  when  I  gave 
Nearly  as  much  away  —  to  reap  the  fruits 
I  might  have  looked  for ! 

C/ia.  Thanks,  sir  :  degrade  me, 

So  you  remain  yourself  !      Adieu  I 

Vic.  I  '11  not 

Forget  it  for  the  future,  nor  presume 
Next  time  to  slight  such  mediators  !     Nay  — 
Had  I  first  moved  them  both  to  intercede, 
I  might  secure  a  chamber  in  Moncaglier 

—  Who  knows  ? 

Cha.  Adieu ! 

Vic.  You  bid  me  this  adieu 

With  the  old  spirit  ? 

Cha.  Adieu ! 

Vic.  Charles  —  Charles  ! 

Cha.  Adieu ! 

[Victor  goes. 


KING  VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES  403 

Cha.  You  were  mistaken,  Marquis,  as  you  hear! 
'Twas  for  another  })urpuse  the  Count  came. 
The  Count  desires  Moncagher.     Give  the  order ! 

D'^0.   \_leisurelf/.^   Your  minister  has  lost  your  confidence, 
Asserting  kite,  for  his  own  purposes, 
Count  Tende  would  .  .   . 

C/ia.     \j1iiujlng  his  badge  hack.']  Be  still  the  minister  ! 
And  give  a  loose  to  your  insulting  joy  ; 
It  irks  me  more  thus  stifled  than  expressed  : 
Loose  it ! 

D'  0.        There  's  none  to  loose,  alas  !  —  I  see 
I  never  am  to  die  a  martyr. 

Fol.  Charles ! 

Cha.  No  praise,  at  least,  Polyxena  —  no  praise  ! 


KING  CHARLES. 

Part  II. 

D'Ormea  seated,  folding  papers  he  has  been  examining. 

This  at  the  last  effects  it :  now.  King  Charles 

Or  else  King  Victor  —  that 's  a  halance  :   but  now, 

D'Ormea  the  arch-culprit,  either  turn 

O'  the  scale,  —  that 's  sure  enough.     A  point  to  solve, 

My  masters,  moralists,  whate'er  your  style  ! 

When  you  discover  why  I  push  myself 

Into  a  pitfall  you  'd  pass  safely  by. 

Impart  to  me  among  the  rest !     No  matter. 

Prompt  are  the  righteous  ever  with  their  rede 

To  us  the  wrongful :  lesson  them  this  once ! 

For  safe  among  the  wicked  are  you  set, 

D'Ormea  I      We  lament  life's  brevity. 

Yet  quarter  e'en  the  threescore  years  and  ten. 

Nor  stick  to  call  the  quarter  roundly  '"  life." 

D'Ormea  was  wicked,  say,  some  twenty  years  ; 

A  tree  so  long  was  stunted  ;  afterward. 

What  if  it  grew,  continued  growing,  till 

No  fellow  of  the  forest  equalled  it  ? 

'T  was  a  stump  then  ;  a  stump  it  still  must  be  : 

While  forward  saplings,  at  the  outset  checked, 

In  virtue  of  that  first  sprout  keep  their  style 

Amid  the  forest's  green  fraternity. 

Thus  I  shoot  up  to  surely  get  lop])ed  down 

And  bound  up  for  the  burning.     Now  for  it ! 

Enter  Charles  and  Polyxena  with  Attendants. 


404  KING  VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES 

D'O.  [rises  ~\   Sir,  in  the  due  discharge  of  this  my  office  — 
This  enforced  summons  of  yourself  from  Turin, 
And  the  disclosure  I  am  bound  to  make 
To-night,  —  there  must  already  be,  I  feel, 
So  much  that  wounds  .  .  . 

Cha.  Well,  sir  ? 

D  0.  —  That  I,  perchance, 

May  utter  also  what,  another  time. 
Would  irk  mucli,  —  it  may  prove  less  irksome  now. 

Cha.  What  would  you  utter  ? 

D'O.  That  I  from  my  soul 

Grieve  at  to-night's  event :  for  you  I  grieve, 
E'en  grieve  for  .  .  . 

Cha.  Tush,  another  time  for  talk ! 

My  kingdom  is  in  imminent  danger  ? 

DO.  Let 

The  Count  communicate  with  France  —  its  King, 
His  grandson,  will  have  Fleury's  aid  for  this, 
Though  for  no  other  war. 

Cha.  First  for  the  levies  : 

What  forces  can  I  muster  presently  ? 

[D'Ormea  delivers  papers  which  Charles  inspects. 

Cha.  Good  —  very  good.     Montorio  .  .  .  how  is  this  ? 
—  Equips  me  double  the  old  comj)lement 
Of  soldiers  ? 

D'O.  Since  his  land  has  been  relieved 

From  double  imposts,  this  he  manages  : 
But  under  the  late  monarch  .  .  . 

Cha.  Peace !     I  know. 

Count  Spava  has  omitted  mentioning 
What  proxy  is  to  head  these  troops  of  his. 

DO.  Count  Spava  means  to  head  his  troops  himself. 
Something  to  fight  for  now  ;  "  Whereas,"  says  he, 
"  Under  the  sovereign's  father  "... 

Cha.  It  would  seem 

That  all  my  peoj)le  love  me. 

D'O.  Yes. 

[  To  PoLYXENA  ivhile  Charles  continues  to  inspect  the  papers. 

A  temper 
Like  Victor's  may  avail  to  keep  a  state ; 
He  terrifies  men  and  they  fall  not  off  ; 
Good  to  restrain  :  best,  if  restraint  were  all. 
But,  with  the  silent  circle  round  him,  ends 
Such  sway  :  our  King's  begins  precisely  there. 
For  to  suggest,  impel  and  set  at  work. 
Is  quite  another  function.     Men  may  shght. 


KING   VICTOR  AND  KING   CHARLES  405 

In  time  of  peace,  the  King  who  brought  tlieni  peace : 
In  war,  —  his  voice,  his  eyes,  help  more  than  fear. 
They  love  you,  sir  ! 

Cha.  [fo  Attendants.']  Bring  the  regalia  forth  ! 
Quit  the  room  !     And  now,  Marquis,  answer  me  ! 
Why  should  the  King  of  France  invade  my  realm  ? 

UO.  Why  ?      Did  I  not  acquaint  your  Majesty 
An  hour  ago  ? 

Cha.  I  choose  to  hear  again 

What  then  I  heard. 

D'O.  Because,  sir,  as  I  said, 

Your  father  is  resolved  to  have  his  crown 
At  any  risk ;  and,  as  I  judge,  calls  in 
The  foreigner  to  aid  him. 

Cha.  And  your  reason 

For  saying  this  ? 

D'O.   [Aside.']  Ay,  just  his  father's  way  ! 
\_To  Ch.]  The  Count  wrote  yesterday  to  your  forces'  Chief, 
Rhebinder  —  made  demand  of  help  — 

Cha.  To  try 

Rhebinder  —  he  's  of  alien  blood.     Aught  else  ? 

D^O.  Receiving  a  refusal,  —  some  hours  after, 
The  Count  called  on  Del  Borgo  to  deliver 
The  Act  of  Abdication  :  he  refusing. 
Or  hesitating,  rather  — 

Cha.  What  ensued  ? 

D'O.  At  midnight,  only  two  hours  since,  at  Turin, 
He  rode  in  person  to  the  citadel 
With  one  attendant,  to  the  Soccorso  gate. 
And  bade  the  governor,  San  Remi,  open  — 
Admit  him. 

Cha.  For  a  purpose  I  divine. 

These  three  were  faithful,  then  ? 

D'O.  They  told  it  me  : 

And  I  — 

Cha.         Most  faithful  — 

U  0.  Tell  it  you  —  with  this 

Moreover  of  my  own  :  if,  an  hour  hence. 
You  have  not  interposed,  the  Count  will  be 
On  his  road  to  France  for  succor. 

Cha.  Very  good  ! 

You  do  your  duty  now  to  me  your  monarch 
Fully,  I  warrant  ?  —  have,  that  is,  your  project 
For  saving  both  of  us  disgrace,  no  doubt  ? 

D'O.   I  give  my  counsel,  —  and  the  only  one. 
A  month  since,  I  besought  you  to  employ 


406  KING  VICTOR  AND  KING   CHARLES 

Restraints  which  had  prevented  many  a  pang : 
But  now  the  harsher  course  must  be  pursued. 
These  papers,  made  for  the  emergency, 
Will  pain  you  to  subscribe  :  this  is  a  list 
Of  those  suspected  merely  —  men  to  watch  ; 
This  —  of  the  few  of  the  Count's  very  household 
You  must,  however  reluctantly,  arrest ; 
While  here  "s  a  method  of  remonstrance  —  sure 
Not  stronger  than  the  case  demands  —  to  take 
With  the  Count's  self. 

Cha.  Deliver  those  three  papers. 

Fol.  [while  Charles  inspects  them  —  to  D'Okmea.J 
Your  measures  ai-e  not  over-harsh,  sir :   France 
Will  hardly  be  deterred  from  her  intents 
By  these. 

D'O.  If  who  proposes  might  disiDOse, 

I  could  soon  satisfy  you.     Even  these, 
Hear  what  he  '11  say  at  my  presenting  ! 

Cha.  \_who  has  signed  thein.~\  There  ! 

About  the  warrants  !  You  've  my  signature. 
AVhat  turns  you  pale  ?  I  do  my  duty  by  you 
In  acting  boldly  thus  on  your  advice. 

D'O.    [reading  them  separately. ~\   Arrest  the  people  I  sus- 
pected merely  ? 

Cha.  Did  you  susi)ect  them  ? 

Z)'  0.  Doubtless  :  but  —  but  —  sir. 

This  Forquieri  's  governor  of  Turin, 
And  Rivarol  and  he  have  influence  over 
Half  of  the  capital !     Rabella,  too  ? 
Why,  sir  — 

Cha.  Oh,  leave  the  fear  to  me  ! 

Z>'0.  [still  7'eading.']  You  bid  me 

Incarcerate  the  people  on  this  list  ? 
Sir  — 

Cha.  But  you  never  bade  arrest  those  men, 
So  close  related  to  my  father  too, 
On  trifling  grounds  ? 

Z>'0.  Oh,  as  for  that,  St.  George, 

President  of  Chambery's  senators, 
Is  hatching  treason  !  still  — 

[3fore  troubled.']   Sir,  Count  Cumiane 
Is  brother  to  your  father's  wife  !     What 's  here  ? 
Arrest  the  wife  herself  ? 

Clia.  You  seem  to  think 

A  venial  crime  this  plot  against  me.     Well  ? 

D'O.  [who  has  read  the  last  paper.']  Wherefore  am  I  thus 
ruined  ?     Why  not  take 


KING  VICTOR  AND  KING   CHARLES  407 

My  life  at  once  ?     This  poor  formality 

Is,  let  me  say,  unworthy  you  !     Prevent  it 

You.  madam !      I  have  served  you,  am  prepared 

For  all  disgraces  :  only,  lot  disgrace 

Be  plain,  be  pro})er  —  })roper  for  the  world 

To  pass  its  judL;ment  on  'twixt  you  and  me  ! 

Take  back  your  warrant,  I  will  none  of  it ! 

Cha.  Here  is  a  man  to  talk  of  fickleness ! 
He  stakes  his  life  upon  my  father's  falsehood ; 
I  bid  him  .  .  . 

Z>'  0.  Not  you  !     Were  he  trebly  false, 

You  do  not  bid  me  .   .  . 

C/ui.  Is  't  not  written  there  ? 

I  thought  so  :   give  —  I  '11  set  it  right. 

D'O.  Is  It  there? 

Oh  yes,  and  plain  —  arrest  him  now  —  drag  here 
Your  father  I     And  were  all  six  times  as  plain. 
Do  you  suppose  I  trust  it  ? 

C/ia.  Just  one  word  ! 

You  bring  him.  taken  in  the  act  of  flight, 
Or  else  vour  life  is  forfeit. 

D'O.^  Ay,  to  Turin 

I  bring  him,  and  to-morrow  ? 

Cha.  Here  and  now ! 

The  whole  thing  is  a  lie,  a  hateful  lie, 
As  I  believed  and  as  my  father  said. 
I  knew  it  from  the  first,  but  was  compelled 
To  circumvent  you  ;  and  the  great  DOrmea, 
That  baffled  Alberoni  and  tricked  Coscia, 
The  miserable  sower  of  such  discord 
'Twixt  sire  and  son,  is  in  the  toils  at  last. 
Oh  I  see  I  you  arrive  —  this  plan  of  yours, 
Weak  as  it  is,  torments  sufficiently 
A  sick  old  peevish  man  —  wrings  hasty  speech. 
An  ill-considered  threat  fi'om  him  ;  that's  noted; 
Then  out  you  ferret  papers,  his  amusement 
In  lonely  hours  of  lassitude  — examine 
The  day-by-day  re])ort  of  your  paid  si)ies  — 
And  back  you  come  :   all  was  not  ripe,  you  find. 
And,  as  you  hope,  may  keep  from  ri])ening  yet. 
But  you  were  in  bare  time  I     Only,  't  were  best 
I  never  saw  my  father  —  these  old  men 
Are  potent  in  excuses  :  and  meanwhile, 
D'Ormea's  the  man  I  cannot  do  without! 

Pol.  Charles  — 
V    Cha.  Ah,  no  question  !     You  against  me  too ! 


408  KING  VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES 

You  'd  have  me  eat  and  drink  and  sleep,  live,  die, 

With  this  lie  coiled  about  me,  choking  me  I 

No,  no,  D'Ormea  I     You  venture  life,  you  say, 

Upon  my  father's  perfidy  :  and  I 

Have,  on  the  whole,  no  right  to  disregard 

The  chains  of  testimony  you  thus  wind 

About  me  ;  though  I  do  —  do  from  my  soul 

Discredit  them  :  still  I  must  authorize 

These  measures,  and  I  will !     Perugia  ! 

\_3Iany  Officers  enter. ^  Count  — 

You  and  Solar,  with  aU  the  force  you  have, 
Stand  at  the  Marquis'  orders :  what  he  bids, 
Imphcitly  perform  I     You  are  to  bring 
A  traitor  here  ;  the  man  that 's  likest  one 
At  present,  fronts  me ;  you  are  at  his  beck 
For  a  full  hour  !  he  undertakes  to  show 
A  fouler  than  himself,  —  but,  failing  that, 
Return  with  him,  and,  as  my  father  lives. 
He  dies  this  night !     The  clemency  you  blame 
So  oft,  shall  be  revoked  —  rights  exercised, 
Too  long  abjured. 

[To  D'Ormea.]         Now,  sir,  about  the  work  ! 
To  save  your  king  and  country  !     Take  the  warrant ! 

D'O.  You  hear  the  sovereign's  mandate.  Count  Perugia  ? 
Obey  me  !     As  your  dihgence,  expect 
Reward  !     All  follow  to  Montcagiier ! 

Cha.  \_i?i  great  anguish.]  D'Ormea  !  [D'Ormea  goes. 

He  goes,  lit  up  with  that  appalling  smile  ! 

[  To  PoLYXENA  after  a  pause. 
At  least  you  understand  all  this  ? 

Pol.  These  means 

Of  our  defence  —  these  measures  of  precaution  ? 

Cha.  It  must  be  the  best  way  :   I  should  have  else 
Withered  beneath  his  scorn. 

JPol.  What  would  you  say  ? 

Cha.  Why,  you  don't  think  I  mean  to  keep  the  crown, 
Polyxena  ? 

I^ol.  You  then  believe  the  story 

In  spite  of  all  —  that  Victor  's  coming  ? 

Cha.  Believe  it  ? 

I  know  that  lie  is  coming  —  feel  the  strength 
That  has  upheld  me  leave  me  at  his  coming  ! 
'T  was  mine,  and  now  he  takes  his  own  again. 
Some  kinds  of  strength  are  well  enough  to  have ; 
But  who  's  to  have  that  stiength  ?     Let  my  crown  go  ! 
I  meant  to  keep  it ;  but  I  cannot  —  cannot ! 


KING  VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES  409 

Only,  lie  shall  not  taunt  me  —  he,  the  first  .   .   . 

See  if  he  would  not  be  the  first  to  taunt  nie 

With  having  left  his  kingdom  at  a  word, 

With  letting  it  be  con(i[uered  wdthout  stroke, 

With  ...  no  —  no  —  't  is  no  worse  than  when  he  left ! 

I  've  just  to  bid  him  take  it.  and,  that  over, 

We  '11  fly  away  —  fly,  for  I  loathe  this  Turin, 

This  Rivoli,  all  titles  loathe,  all  state. 

We  'd  best  go  to  your  country  —  unless  God 

Send  I  die  now  I 

l^oL  Charles,  hear  me  ! 

C/ia.  And  again 

Shall  you  be  my  Polyxena  —  you  '11  take  me 
Out  of  this  woe  I     Yes,  do  speak,  and  keep  speaking  ! 
I  would  not  let  you  sjjeak  just  now,  for  fear 
You  *d  counsel  me  against  him :  but  talk,  now, 
As  we  two  used  to  talk  in  blessed  times  : 
Bid  me  endure  all  his  caprices  ;  take  me 
From  this  mad  post  above  him  I 

Fol.  I  believe 

We  are  undone,  but  from  a  different  cause. 
All  your  resources,  down  to  the  least  guard, 
Are  at  D'Ormea's  beck.     What  if,  the  while. 
He  act  in  concert  with  your  father  ?     We 
Indeed  were  lost.     This  lonely  Rivoli  — 
Where  find  a  better  place  for  them  ? 

Cha.  [pacing  the  room.']  And  why 

Does  Victor  come  ?     To  undo  all  that 's  done, 
Restore  the  past,  j)revent  the  future  !     Seat 
His  mistress  in  your  seat,  and  place  in  mine 
.  .  .   Oh,  my  own  people,  whom  will  you  find  there, 
To  ask  of,  to  consult  with,  to  care  for, 

To  hold  up  with  your  hands  ?     Whom  ?     One  that 's  false  — 
False  —  from  the  head's  crown  to  the  foot's  sole,  false  ! 
The  best  is,  that  I  knew  it  in  my  lieart 
From  the  beginning,  and  expected  this, 
And  hated  you,  Polyxena,  because 
You  saw  through  him.  though  I  too  saw  through  him, 
Saw  that  he  meant  this  while  he  crowned  me,  while 
He  prayed  for  me,  —  nay,  while  he  kissed  my  brow, 
I  saw  — 

Pol.         But  if  your  measures  take  effect, 
D'Ormea  true  to  you  ? 

Cha.  Then  worst  of  all ! 

I  shall  have  loosed  that  callous  wretch  on  him  ! 
Well  may  the  woman  taunt  him  with  his  child  — 


410  KING  VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES 

I,  eating  here  his  bread,  clothed  in  his  clothes, 
Seated  upon  his  seat,  let  slip  D'Ormea 
To  outrage  him  !     We  talk  —  perchance  he  tears 
My  father  from  his  bed  ;  the  old  hands  feel 
For  one  who  is  not,  but  who  should  be  there  : 
He  finds  D'Ormea  !     D'Ormea  too  finds  him  ! 
The  crowded  chamber  when  the  lights  go  out  — 
Closed  doors  —  the  horrid  scuffle  in  the  dark  — 
The  accursed  prompting  of  the  minute !     My  guards  ! 
To  horse  —  and  after,  with  me  —  and  prevent ! 

Fol.  [seizing  his  hand.~\    King  Charles  !     Pause  here  upon 
this  strip  of  time 
Allotted  you  out  of  eternity  ! 

Crowns  are  from  God  :  in  his  name  you  hold  yours. 
Your  life  's  no  least  thing,  were  it  fit  your  life 
Should  be  abjured  along  with  rule  ;  but  now. 
Keep  both  !     Your  duty  is  to  live  and  rule  — 
You,  who  would  vulgarly  look  fine  enough 
In  the  world's  eye,  deserting  your  soul's  charge,  — 
Ay,  you  would  have  men's  praise,  this  Rivoli 
Would  be  illumined  !     While,  as  't  is,  no  doubt, 
Something  of  stain  will  ever  rest  on  you  ; 
No  one  will  rightly  know  why  you  refused 
To  abdicate  ;  they  '11  talk  of  deeds  you  could 
Have  done,  no  doubt,  —  nor  do  I  much  expect 
Future  achievement  will  blot  out  the  past, 
Envelop  it  in  haze  —  nor  shall  we  two 
Live  happy  any  more.     'T  will  be,  I  feel, 
Only  in  moments  that  the  duty  's  seen 
As  palpably  as  now  —  the  months,  the  years 
Of  painful  indistinctness  are  to  come. 
While  daily  must  we  tread  these  palace-rooms 
Pregnant  with  memories  of  the  past :  your  eye 
May  turn  to  mine  and  find  no  comfort  there. 
Through  fancies  that  beset  me,  as  yourself. 
Of  other  courses,  with  far  other  issues, 
We  might  have  taken  this  great  night :  such  bear, 
As  I  will  bear  !     What  matters  happiness  ? 
Duty  !     There  's  man's  one  moment :   this  is  yours  ! 

[Putting  the  crown  on  his  head,  and  the  scpptre  in  his  hand ,  she  places 
him  on  his  seat :  a  long  pause  and  silence. 
Enter  D'Ormea  and  Victor. 

Vie.  At  last  I  speak;  but  once  —  that  once,  to  you! 
'T  is  you  I  ask,  not  these  your  varletry, 
Who  's  King  of  us  ? 

Cha.  [from  his  seat.^  Count  Tende  .  .  . 


KING  VICTOR   AND  KING   CHARLES  411 

Ylc.  What  your  spies 

Assert  I  ponder  in  my  soul,  I  say  — 
Here  to  your  face,  amid  your  guards  !      1  choose 
To  take  again  the  crown  whose  shadow  I  gave  — 
For  still  its  i)otency  surrounds  the  weak 
White  locks  their  ielon  hands  have  discomposed. 
Or  I  '11  not  ask  who  's  King,  but  simply,  who 
Withholds  the  crown  I  claim  ?     Deliver  it ! 
I  have  no  friend  in  the  wide  world  :  nor  France 
Nor  England  cares  for  me  :  you  see  the  sum 
Of  what  1  can  avail.     Deliver  it ! 

Cha,  Take  it,  my  father  ! 

And  now  say  in  turn, 
Was  it  done  well,  my  father  —  sure  not  well, 
To  try  me  thus !     I  might  have  seen  much  cause 
For  keeping  it  —  too  easily  seen  cause  ! 
But,  from  that  moment,  e'en  more  wofully 
My  life  had  i)ined  away,  than  pine  it  will. 
Already  you  have  much  to  answer  for. 
My  life  to  pine  is  nothing,  —  her  sunk  eyes 
Were  happy  once  !     No  doubt,  my  people  think 
I  am  their  King  still  .  .  .  but  I  cannot  strive  ! 
Take  it ! 

Vic.  [o?i6  hand  on  the  crown  Chakles  offers,  the  other  on  his 
neck.~\   So  few  years  give  it  quietly. 
My  son !     It  will  drop  from  me.     See  you  not  ? 
A  crown  's  unlike  a  sword  to  give  away  — 
That,  let  a  strong  hand  to  a  weak  hand  give  ! 
But  crowns  should  slip  from  palsied  brows  to  heads 
Young  as  this  head  :  yet  mine  is  weak  enough. 
E'en  weaker  than  I  knew.     I  seek  for  phrases 
To  vindicate  my  right.     'T  is  of  a  piece  ! 
All  is  alike  gone  by  with  me  —  who  beat 
Once  D'Orleans  in  his  lines  —  his  very  lines  ! 
To  have  been  Eugene's  comrade,  Louis'  rival. 
And  now  ... 

Cha.  [putting  the  croicn  on  him,   to  the   rest.']     The    King 
speaks,  yet  none  kneels,  I  think  I 

Vic.  I  am  then  King  !     As  I  became  a  King 
Despite  the  nations,  kept  myself  a  King, 
So  I  die  King,  with  Kingship  dying  too 
Around  me  I      I  have  lasted  Europe's  time  ! 
AVhat  wants  my  story  of  comj^letion  ?     AVhere 
Must  needs  the  damning  break  show  ?     Who  mistrusts 
My  children  here  — tell  they  of  any  break 
'Twixt  my  day's  sunrise  and  its  fiery  fall  ? 


412  KING   VICTOR   AND   KING    CHARLES 

And  who  were  by  me  when  I  died  but  they  ? 
D'Ormea  there  I 

Cha.  What  means  he  ? 

Yic.  Ever  there ! 

Charles  —  how  to  save  your  story  ?     IMine  must  go  ! 
Say  —  say  that  you  refused  the  crown  to  nie  I 
Charles,  yours  shall  be  my  story  I     You  immured 
Me,  say,  at  Rivoli.     A  single  year 
I  spend  without  a  sight  of  you,  then  die  — 
That  will  serve  every  purpose  —  tell  that  tale 
The  world  ! 

Cha.  Mistrust  me  ?     Help  ! 

Yic.  Past  help,  past  reach  ! 

'T  is  in  the  heart  —  you  cannot  reach  the  heart : 
This  broke  mine,  that  I  did  believe,  you,  Charles, 
Would  have  denied  and  so  disgraced  me. 

Fol.  Charles 

Has  never  ceased  to  be  your  subject,  sir  ! 
He  reigned  at  first  through  setting  up  yourself 
As  pattern  :  if  he  e'er  seemed  harsh  to  you, 
'T  was  from  a  too  intense  appreciation 
Of  your  own  character  :  he  acted  you  — 
Ne'er  for  an  instant  did  I  think  it  real, 
Nor  look  for  any  other  than  this  end. 
I  hold  him  worlds  the  worse  on  that  account ; 
But  so  it  was. 

Cha.  [to  PoLYX.]  I  love  you  now  indeed  ! 
[To  Victor.]  You  never  knew  me  ! 

Vic.  Hardly  till  this  moment. 

When  I  seem  learning  many  other  things 
Because  the  time  for  using  them  is  past. 
If  't  were  to  do  again  !     That 's  idly  wished. 
Truthfulness  might  prove  policy  as  good 
As  guile.     Is  this  my  daughter's  forehead  ?     Yes : 
I  've  made  it  fitter  now  to  be  a  queen's 
Than  formerly  :     I  've  ploughed  the  deep  lines  there 
Which  keep  too  Avell  a  crown  from  slipping  off. 
No  matter.     Guile  has  made  me  King  again. 
Louis  —  't  was  in  King  Victor  s  time :  —  lo7ig  since, 
When  Louis  reigned  and,  also,  Victor  reigned. 
How  the  world  tallvS  already  of  us  two ! 
God  of  eclijise  and  each  discolored  star, 
Why  do  I  linger  then  ? 

Ha  !     Where  lurks  he  ? 
D'Ormea !     Nearer  to  your  King  !     Now  stand  ! 

[Collecting  his  strength  as  D'Ormea  approaches. 
Y^ou  lied,  D'Ormea  !     I  do  not  repent.  [Dies. 


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